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Class _jy^A\'\£ 

Book X^n5_ 

Copyright N"_J^_b<b, 

COPYRrCilT DEPOSIT. 



GOLDEN POEMS 



" The Poet in a golden clime was born, 
With golden stars above." 

" The Folk-songs old that never are outworn. 

"Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care ; 

And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer." 



Golden Poems 



mg Britigi) antr American autl)org 



EDITED BY 

FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE 

Editor of "Bugle Echoes: Poems of the Civil War, 
"Laurel -Crowned Verse," etc., Author of 
"The Everyday Life of Lincoln," etc. 



NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION 
ENTIRELY REPRINTED 




CHICAGO 

A. C. McClurg ^ Co. 

1906 



71^ m 



r 



UBBARY of CONGRESS i 
Two Copies Received 

MAH II 1907 

->^ Copyriit.t Entry ^ 
GLASS A XXcNb. 



n 



COPYRIGHT 

JANSEN. McCLURG & CO. 
1881 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1906 

Published September 22, 1906 

this new revised edition is the 
ninth printing of this work 



ff^c ILaftegttJe ^ress 

R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY 
CHICAGO 



\s? 



PREFACE 

TO THE FIRST EDITION 



THE plan and gcope of the present volume are, it is 
believed, sufficiently explained by its title and by its 
contents and arrangement. As, however, the number of 
poetical anthologies is already large, a word of justification 
may properly be expected of anyone who would venture 
to increase the number. 

In any close survey of the larger compilations of Dana, 
Bryant, Coates, Fields and Whipple, and Sargent, the 
reader, while impressed with the fulness and richness of 
these collections, must notice the comparatively small num- 
ber of pieces which have become to any considerable extent 
popular favorites. It is apparent also that miscellaneous 
collections should be chiefly popular in plan and purpose. 
The field of English poetry is so vast that no anthologies, 
however wide their scope, can serve as a substitute for the 
works of the various authors; and attempts to make them 
do this must result in cumbersome and unwieldy as well as 
expensive volumes. Of smaller books we akeady have, 
it is true, a number which admirably serve their purpose; 
but it is no disparagement of these to note their limited 
range— their design being in general to represent some 
special department or some particular period of poetry, or 
to express the individual tastes and preferences of their 

(v) 



vi PREFACE 

illustrious compilers. Belonging to the first of these classes 
are works so admirable as Palgrave's "Golden Treasury" 
— which is restricted to songs and lyrics, and represents 
no American authors, — Johnson's "Single Famous Poems," 
and Lodge's "Ballads and Lyrics"; and to the second 
class, Whittier's "Songs of Three Centuries," Longfellow's 
" Poems of Places," and Emerson's " Parnassus." 

Having this popular aim prominently in view, the com- 
piler of the present volume has hoped to be able, by limit- 
ing his selections as closely as possible to short pieces, to 
bring together a larger number and greater variety of popu- 
lar poetical favorites than can perhaps be found elsewhere in 
equal compass. It would of course be too much to expect 
that any reader could find all of his favorite pieces here. 
Judgments would differ in many instances as to what should 
be given precedence; and many omissions are inevitable. 
As a necessary result of the preference for short pieces, many 
of the older writers are represented but sparingly: and from 
this there also results, what it is hoped may prove to be an 
advantage. — and what, indeed, has been one of the objects 
of the book — that many pieces are to be found here which 
are not usually given in similar collections. In order to 
afford as wide a representation of authors as possible, the 
selections have been confined, except in a very few instances, 
to a small number from each. Many authors, indeed, are 
known by but a single piece — which would hence have a 
special claim to a place here. As far as practicable, whole 
poems have been chosen; but where an author could best 
be represented by some familiar or characteristic extract, 
this has been used, and in such case the full title of the 
poem from which the extract is taken usually appears at 
the end. 

Great pains have been taken to secure correct versions of 
the pieces used. This is, however, a matter of too much 
difl&culty to permit anyone who has ev^ attempted it to be 
confident of entire success. Many fine pieces are not to be 



PREFACE vii 

found in any authentic form, but exist only as waifs and 
strays of literature. Some have so long borne titles different 
from those their authors gave them, that they would scarcely 
be recognized by any other name; while others have not 
only been re-christened, but also re-apparelled in such a way 
that their own parents might almost pass them by as stran- 
gers: like the poor palmer with Marmion at Norham Castle, 
they are so changed by fortune and hard usage, that — 

" The mother that them bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
She had not known her child. ' ' 

The classification of the poems, in which the stereotyped 
chronological order is abandoned for an arrangement by 
subjects, is believed to be that most effective and convenient 
in a popular work like this. It is necessarily somewhat ar- 
bitrary, since it is not always clear to which one of several 
classes a poem most fitly belongs. It is hoped, however, 
that the classification will be found in the main correct, 
and that its adoption will be approved by use. 

As has seemed proper and desirable in an American col- 
lection, liberal quotations have been made from the works 
of American poets. These have been necessarily subject 
to existing copyright restrictions, which may explain any 
seeming disproportion in the representation of the various 
authors. The search for material, both in British and 
American poetry, has been brought down as nearly as pos- 
sible to the present; and a very interesting feature of the 
collection, it is thought, is the large number of remarkable 
poems from unknown and little-known authors. Transla- 
tions — since a translated poem really becomes a new poem 
— are in this work indexed under the name of the translator, 
or as anonymous where the translator is not known ; though 
the name of the original author, when known, is given at 
the end of translated pieces. 

F. F. B. 

Chicago, November , 1881. . 



PREFACE 

TO REVISED EDITION 



THAT this collection of English poetry has held its own 
for twenty-five years seems a sufficient reason for offer- 
ing it to the public in a revised and enlarged edition. In the 
earlier preface it was stated that the search for material had 
been " brought down as nearly as possible to the present." 
That present is now a quarter-century past; and while this 
interval has not been marked by the appearance of any great 
names in English poetry, much that is of interest has been 
given to the world both from poets already famous and from 
those who were unknown when the collection was originally 
made. The present edition, therefore, not only sustains the 
intention of the earlier one in bringing the material down to 
date, but includes matter that cannot fail to give increased 
richness and variety to the collection. 

In an anthology such as this, two limitations are, or should 
be, obvious: limitations of space, and limitations in the use 
of copyrighted matter. The question is not as to what 
might be done in a larger volume and with entire freedom 
in using material, but whether the space and material at 
command have been used wisely on the whole. And on 
this point, of course, opinions will be almost as varied as the 
tastes of readers; no poetry-lover will ever find his ideal 
anthology until he makes his own. Also, any attempt 

(viii) 



PREFACE ix 

at logical proportion between the importance or rank of 
poets and the number of pieces by which they are represented 
is impracticable, and has not been attempted here. That 
is not the plan or purpose of the volume, — rather, the aim 
has been to produce a compact and inexpensive collection 
of good poetry representing not only the great authors but 
also others of lesser rank who have produced things that the 
world will not willingly pass by. 

The editor desires to express his obligations to the cour- 
tesy and liberality of many American authors and publish- 
ers in permitting the use of copyrighted matter — especially 
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., whose list is so rich in the 
poetry not only of our standard writers but of minor poets ; 
and to Messrs. Harper & Brothers, Messrs. G. P. Putnam's 
Sons, Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., J. B. Lippincott Co., 
The Century Co., Messrs. Little, Brow^n & Co., Messrs. 
McClure, Phillips & Co., Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co., 
and Messrs. Silver, Burdett & Co. 

F. F. B. 

Chicago, August z, igo6. 



CONTENTS 



Part I. — By the Fireside 

PAGE 

Like a Laverock in the Lift Jean Ingelow 33 

Only a Baby Small Matthias Barr 33 

Cradle Song Josiah Gilbert Holland 34 

Choosing a Name Mary Lamb 35 

My Babes in the Wood Sallie M. B. Piatt 36 

"Bairnies, Cuddle DooN " Alexander Anderson 37 

The Children's Hour . . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 38 

Willie Winkie William Miller 39 

The Farmer Sat in his Easy Chair Charles Gamage Eastman 39 

Not One to Spare Ethel Lynn Beers 40 

Tired Mothers May Riley Smith 41 

WiNiFREDA Anonymous 42 

Don't be Sorrowful, Darling ...... Rembrandt Peale 43 

John Anderson, My Jo ... Robert Burns 44 

The Sailor's Wife Jean Adam 44 

A Winter Evening at Home William Cowper 46 

Home, Sweet Home John Howard Payne 46 

It 's Hame, and it 's Hame Allan Cunningham 46 

Old Folks at Home Stephen Collins Foster 47 

My Old Kentucky Home Stephen Collins Foster 48 

In a Strange Land James Thomas Fields 48 

No Time Like the Old Time ... Oliver Wendell Holmes 49 

The Old Oaken Bucket Samuel Woodworth 49 

Rain on the Roof -.•... Coates Kinney 50 

I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 5 1 

Graves of a Household . . . Felicia Dorothea Hemans 52 

The Family Meeting Charles Sprague 53 

(xi) 



xii CONTENTS 

Part II. — Nature's Voices 

PAGE 

The World IS Too Much WITH Us . . William Wordsworth 57 

Invocation to Nature Percy Bysshe Shelley 57 

Freedom of Nature James Thomson 58 

Nature's Delights , John Keats 58 

Imaginative Sympathy with Nature Lord Byron 58 

Varying Impressions from Nature . William Wordsxvorth 59 

The Year 's at the Spring Robert Browning 60 

Early Spring . Alfred, Lord Tennyson 60 

April in England Robert Browning 61 

Nature in Spring James Thomson 62 

Spring in Carolina . Henry Timrod 62 

June Willia?n Cullen Bryant 63 

June James Russell Lowell 65 

A Summer Morn James Beattie 66 

Summer John Townsend Trowbridge 67 

September George Arnold 68 

October William Morris 69 

Indian Summer Emily Dickinson 70 

Autumn Emily Dickinson 70 

Winter . William Cowper 70 

Months AND Seasons Edmund Spenser 71 

Loves of the Plants Erasmus Darwin 74 

Violets Robert Herrick 75 

The First Violet Marie B. Williams 75 

The Violet . William Wetmore Story 76 

Orchid Lydia Avery Coonley Ward 77 

The Daisy . Geoffrey Chaucer 78 

Daffodils William Wordsworth 78 

To the Fringed Gentian William Cullen Bryant 79 

Four-leaf Clover Ella Higginson 79 

To A Wind-Flower Madison Cawein 79 

To A Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley 80 

The Skylark James Hogg 82 

To THE Cuckoo William Wordsworth 83 

Ode TO A Nightingale John Keats 84 

The Solitary Reaper William Wordsworth 86 

The Ocean Lord Byron 86 

To Seneca Lake James Gates Percival 87 

The Sierras Joaquin Miller 88 

Hymn Before Sunrise Samuel Taylor Coleridge 89 

Sunrise Edmund Spenser 91 



CONTENTS xiii 

PAGE 

Morning Wtlliam Shakespeare 91 

Dawn Richard Watson Gilder 91 

Hail, Holy Light John Milton 92 

Night Edward Young 92 

Night Lord Byron 93 

Night Percy Bysshe Shelley 93 

Stars Lord Byron 94 

Day is Dying . . . M irian Evans Lewes Cross {George Eliot) 94 

The Evening Wind William Cullen Bryant 95 

Ode to the West Wind Percy Bysshe Shelley 96 

The Thunder-Storm James Thomson 98 

A Thunder-Storm in the Alps Lord Byron 99 

The Snow-Storm James Thomson 99 

Before the Rain . . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 100 

After the Rain . Thomas Bailey Aldrich loi 

The Rainbow James Thomson loi 

The Rainbow William Wordsworth 102 

Part III. — Dreams and Fancies 

Dreamers Joaquin Miller 105 

Fancies John Ford 105 

Drifting Thomas Buchanan Read 106 

Basking Sydney Dohell 108 

KuBLA Khan Samuel Taylor Coleridge 108 

Echo AND Silence '. Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges no 

Indirection Richard Real] no 

We Are THE Music Makers .... Arthur O'Shaughnessy in 

Give Me Back My Youth Again Fro7n the German of Goethe in 

Idle Singer of AN Empty Day William Morris 112 

In Our Boat Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 113 

Convalescence Edgar Allan Poe 113 

The Orchard-Lands of Long Ago James Whitcomh Riley 114 

Alone BY THE Hearth George Arnold 115 

The Wistful Days Robert Underwood Johnson 116 

At Best John Boyle O'Reilly 117 

Shelley Robert Browning 117 

Bugle Song Alfred, Lord Tennyson 117 

Egyptian Serenade George William Curtis 118 

Chimney Swallows Horatio Nelson Powers 118 

The Wanderer Eugene Field 119 

Song Celia Thaxter 120 

The Golden Silence William Winter 120 

The Blessed Damozel Dante Gabriel Rossetti 121 



xiv CONTENTS 

PAGE 

In the Mist Sarah Woolsey {Susan Coolidge) 124 

The Mendicants Bliss Carman 126 

Upon the Beach Henry David Thoreau 127 

A Strip of Blue Lucy Larcom 127 

The Rose of Stars . . ,. . . . George Edward Woodherry 129 

Pre-Existence Paul Hamilton Hayne 129 

The Passionate Reader to his Poet Richard Le Gallienne 130 

An Old Man's Idyl Richard Real} 131 

The Flight of Youth Richard Henry Stoddard 132 

Some Day of Days ....*... Nora Perry 133 

Distance Lends Enchantment Anonymous 133 

A Book Emily Dickinson 134 

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes Francis W. Bourdillon 134 

Sleeping and Dreaming Josiah Gilbert Holland 134 

Part IV. — Friendship and Sympathy 

Forever . . ., John Boyle O'Reilly 139 

The Memory of the Heart Daniel Webster 1 39 

AuLD Lang Syne Robert Burns 140 

Our Sister Horatio Nelson Powers 140 

We Have Been Friends Together Caroline Elizabeth Norton 141 

To Thomas Moore Lord Byron 142 

In Memory of Walter Savage Landor 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 142 

Joseph Rodman Drake Fitz-Greene Halleck 144 

A Soldier-Poet Rossiter Johnson 144 

Invitation to Izaak Walton Charles Cotton 145 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice .... Alfred, Lord Tennyson 146 

To Victor Hugo Alfred, Lord Tennyson 147 

For the Moore Centennial Celebration 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 148 

A Friend's Greeting Bayard Taylor 149 

Part V. — Love 

Wake Now, My Love Edmund Spenser 155 

True Love William Shakespeare 155 

My True-Love Hath My Heart . . . .Sir Philip Sidney 156 
When in Disgrace With Fortune and Men's Eyes 

William Shakespeare 156 

Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes .... Ben Jonson 156 

Song Allan Ramsay 157 

A Girdle Edmund Waller 157 

The Shepherd's Love Ben Jonson 157 



CONTENTS XV 

PAGE 

To Althea, from Prison Richard Lovelace 158" 

A Celebration of Charis Ben Jonson 158 

Cupid AND Camp ASPE John Lyly 159 

Cherry Ripe Richard Alison 160 

Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover . . Sir John Suckling 160 

Julia Robert Herrick 160 

Absence William Shakespeare 161 

Take, O Take Those Lips Away . . Beaumont and Fletcher 161 
Hark! Hark! the Lark at Heaven's Gate Sings 

William Shakespeare 162 
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 

Christopher Marlowe 162 

The Nymph's Reply Sir Walter Raleigh 162 

Pain of Love Henry Constable 163 

How Many Times Thomas Lovell Beddoes 163 

I Do Confess Thou 'rt Sweet Sir Robert Ayton 164 

A Parting Michael Drayton 164 

Afton Water ■ Robert Burets 165 

O, Saw Ye Bonnie Lesley Robert Burns 165 

First Love Lord Byron 166 

How do I Love Thee Elizabeth Barrett Browning 167 

Ask Me No More Alfred, Lord Tennyson 167 

Ae Fond Kiss before We Part ...... Robert Burns 168 

The Departure Alfred, Lord Tennyson 168 

Adieu • Thomas Carlyle 169 

Swallow, Flying South Alfred, Lord Tennyson 170 

Mary Morison Robert Burns 170 

Annie Laurie Douglas 171 

Jenny Kissed Me ■ Leigh Hunt 171 

AuF Wiedersehen James Russell Lowell 172 

Separation . Alfred, Lord Tennyson 172 

Absence Robert Burns 173 

Love's Philosophy Percy Bysshe Shelley 173 

Bonnie Mary Robert Burns 173 

Three Kisses Elizabeth Barrett Browning 174 

1 Arise from Dreams of Thee . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 174 
O, My Luve 's Like a Red, Red Rose . . . Robert Burns 175 

Two IN THE Campagna Robert Browning 175 

Doris Arthur J. Munby 177 

She Was A Phantom OF Delight . . William Wordsworth 178 

Longing Matthew Arnold 178 

Janette's Hair Charles Graham H alpine 179 

Never the Time and the Place .... Robert Browning 180 



xvi CONTENTS 

PAGE 

We Twain Amanda T. Jones i8o 

A Match Algernon Charles Swinburne i8i 

Kiss Me Softly John Godfrey Saxe 182 

Pearls Richard Henry Stoddard 183 

The Brookside Richard Monckton Milnes {Lord Houghton) 183 

If You Were Here Philip Bourke Marston 184 

The Old Story . . . Elizabeth Akers Allen {Florence Percy) 185 

She is Not Fair to Outward View . . , Hartley Coleridge 186 

We Parted in Silence Julia Crawford 186 

The White Birds William Butler Yeats 187 

Evening Song Sidney Lanier 187 

O, Saw Ye THE Lass Richard Ryan 187 

Serenade Oscar Wilde 188 

Love Scorns Degrees Paul Hamilton Hayne 189 

A Song of Krishna Edwin Arnold 189 

Recompense Pakenham Beatty 190 

Bird of Passage Edgar Fawcett 190 

The Love-Letter Emily Dickinson 190 

I Fear Thy Kisses Percy Bysshe Shelley 191 

The Patriot's Bride Sir Charles Gavan Duffy 191 

Together William C. Gannett 192 

I Saw Two Clouds at Morning . John Gardiner Brainard 193 

Love's Wisdom Margaret Deland 194 

A Woman's Question Adelaide Anne Procter 194 

A Woman's Last Word Robert Browning 195 

O Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear Gerald Massey 196 

Part VI. — Liberty and Patriotism 

Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 199 

Love of Liberty William Cow per 199 

Independence Tobias George Smollett 200 

The Hills Were Made for Freedom 

William Goldsmith Brown 201 

Downfall of Poland Thomas Campbell 201 

The Fall of Greece Lord Byron 202 

On the Massacre in Piedmont John Milton 203 

National Decay Oliver Goldsmith 203 

Fair Greece! Sad Relic of Departed Worth Lord Byron 204 

Charles XII of Sweden Samuel Johnson 204 

What Constitutes a State Sir William Jones 205 

A Curse on the Traitor Thomas Moore 206 

England William Wordsworth 206 



CONTENTS xvii 

PAGE 

Mother England Edith M. Thomas 207 

Ave Imperatrix Oscar Wilde 207 

To England Charles Leonard Moore 210 

Canada Charles G. D. Roberts 212 

The Better Country Oliver Goldsmith 213 

Mazzini . . . Laura C. Redden Searing {Howard Glyndon) 214 

Green Fields OF England Arthur Hugh C lough 215 

Saxon Grit Robert Collyer 215 

The Patriot's Death Fitz-Greene Halleck 217 

Westward the Course of Empire .... George Berkeley 218 

Bannockburn Robert Burns 218 

The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake 219 

The Star-Spangled Banner Francis Scott Key 220 

God Save the King Henry Carey 221 

French National Hymn .... French oj Rouget de Lisle 222 

Prussian National Anthem From the German 223. 

The German's Fatherland From the German 224 

Patriotism Sir Walter Scott 225 

Warren's Address John Pierpont 225 

The Battle of Lexington Sidney Lanier 226 

Concord Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson 227 

Eternal Spirit of the Chainless Mind . . . Lord Byron 228 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers Felicia Dorothea Hemans 228 

In State Byron Forceythe Willson 229 

Apocalypse • Richard Real] 232 

Virginians of the Valley .... Francis Orrery Ticknor 234 

Unmanifest Destiny Richard Hovey 234 

We ARE Our Fathers' Sons . .- . William Vaughn Moody 235 

How Sleep the Brave William Collins 236 

Part VII. — Battle Echoes 

Flodden Field Sir Walter Scott 239 

Ye Mariners of England Thomas Campbell 241 

Waterloo Lord Byron 242 

The Unreturning Brave Lord Byron 243 

HOHENLINDEN Thomas Campbell 244 

The Battle of Ivry .... Thomas Babington Macaulay 244 

Battle of the Baltic Thomas Campbell 246 

Border Song Sir Walter Scott 248 

The " Revenge." — A Ballad of the Fleet 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 248 

The Defence of Lucknow .... Alfred, Lord Tennyson 252 

Song of the Camp Bayard Taylor 256 



xviii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Carmen Bellicosum Guy Humphrey McM aster 257 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe 258 

My Maryland James R. Randall 258 

Stonewall Jackson's Way J W. Palmar 260 

Civil War Charles Dawson Shanly 261 

Old Soldiers True Maurice Thompson 262 

The Arsenal at Springfield Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 263 

Part VIII. — Humor 

Love is Like a Dizziness Jam^s Hogg 267 

Gluggity Glug _ , George Colman 268 

RoRY O'MoRE .....',... Samuel Lover 269 

Jolly Good Ale and Old John Still 270 

Little Billee William Makepeace Thackeray 271 

A Carman's Account of a Lawsuit . . Sir David Lyndsay 271 

The New Church Organ Will M. Carleton 272 

Hans Breitmann's Party . Charles G.Leland 274 

The Plaidie Charles Sibley 275 

Bite Bigger Anonymous 276 

Popping Corn Anonymous 277 

A Housekeeper's Tragedy Anonymous 278 

The Sailor's Consolation Charles Dibdin 279 

The Lovers Phoebe Gary 280 

The Nantucket Skipper James Thomas Fields 281 

John Davidson Anonymous 282 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . Oliver Goldsmith 283 

The Power of Prayer .... Sidney and Clifford Lanier 284 

To A Fish John Wolcot 286 

The Society upon the Stanislaus Bret Harte 286 

The Northern Cobbler Alfred, Lord Tennyson 287 

The Aged Stranger Bret Harte 290 

The Sorrows OF Werther . .William Makepeace Thackeray 291 

Part IX. — Pathos and Sorrow 

Tears, Idle Tears Alfred, Lord Tennyson 295 

FiDELE William Shakespeare 295 

Evelyn Hope Robert Browning 296 

To Mary in Heaven Robert Burns 297 

AuLD Robin Gray Lady Anne Barnard 298 

The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe 299 

A Sea Dirge William Shakespeare 300 

The Death of the Flowers . . . William Cullen Bryant 300 

Ashes of Roses Elaine Goodale 301 



CONTENTS xix 

PAGE 

Claribel's Prayer Anonymous 301 

The Rainy Day Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 302 

The Death-Bed . . , Thomas Hood 303 

If She but Knew ........ Arthur O'Shaughnessy 303 

My Slain Richard Real] 304 

The Toys Coventry Patmore 305 

The Bivouac of the Dead Theodore O'Hara 305 

Sands of Dee Charles Kingsley 308 

Hannah Binding Shoes Lucy Larcom 308 

Three Roses Thomas Bailey A^drich 309 

Into the World and Out ...... Sallie M. B. Piatt 310 

The Cradle Austin Dobson 310 

Lovesight . Dante Gabriel Rossetti 310 

Angelus Song Austin Dobson 311 

When the Grass shall Cover Me Anonymous 311 

When I am Dead, My Dearest . . . Christina G. Rossetti 312 

Two Mysteries Mary Mapes Dodge 312 

"O MiTHER, Dinna Dee" Robert Buchanan 313 

To One in Paradise Edgar Allan Poe 313 

My Heart and I Elizabeth Barrett Browning 314 

Rosalie William C. Richards 315 

Requiescat Oscar Wilde 316 

The Old Sexton Park Benjamin 316 

Only A Year Harriet Beecher Stowe 317 

Before Sedan Austin Dobson 318 

Highland Mary Robert Burns 319 

As Thro' the Land Alfred, Lord Tennyson 320 

My Playmate John Greenleaf Whittier 320 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard Thomas Gray 322 

Lucy William Wordsworth 325 

Three Years She Grew William Wordsworth 326 

The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb 327 

Under the Daisies Hattie Tyng Griswold 327 

Lucy's Flittin' William Laid^aw 328 

We are Seven William Wordsworth 329 

The Banks o' Doon Robert Burns 331 

My Love is Dead Thomas Chatterton 331 

Nevermore Lord Byron 332 

Break, Break, Break Alfred, Lord Tennyson 333 

A Life Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall) ^^^ 

It Might Have Been Anonymous :^^^ 

The Hour of Death Felicia Dorothea Hemans 335 

Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny Anonymous 336 



XX CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Mitherless Bairn ' . . William Thorn 336 

Agatha Alfred Austin 337 

The Voice of the Poor Lady Wilde (Speranza) 338 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant Lady Dufferin 339 

The Braes of Yarrow William Hamilton 340 

She and He ■ . . . . Edwin Arnold 343 

Who Ne'er His Bread in Sorrow Ate 

From the German oj Goethe 345 

From " The Rubaiyat" Edward FitzGerald 345 

The Three Fishers Charles Kingsley 347 

The Blue and the Gray Francis Miles Finch 348 

Decoration Day at Charleston Henry Timrod 349 

Dirge for a Soldier George Henry Boker 349 

The Unreturning Brave James Russell Lowell 350 

Lord Raglan Edwin Arnold 351 

Vale Richard Real/ 352 

Dickens in Camp Bret Harte 353 

Obsequies of David, the Painter 

Francis Mahony {Father Prout) 354 

Bayard Taylor John Greenleaj Whittier 355 

Horace Greeley Edmund Clarence Stedman 356 

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed 

Walt Whitman 358 

Captain ! My Captain ! Walt Whitman 360 

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead Alfred Tennyson 361 

Farewell Algernon Charles Swinburne 361 

Part X. — The Better Life 

Heard are the Voices Thomas Carlyle 365 

How to Live Horatius Bonar 365 

A Happy Life Sir Henry Wotton 366 

Gradatim Josiah Gilbert Holland 366 

A Hindoo's Search for Truth A. C. Lyall 367 

Responses Ralph Waldo Emerson 369 

De Profundis Elizabeth Barrett Browning 369 

Restitution . . . Anonymous 372 

Blessed are They that Mourn . . William Cullen Bryant 373 

The Master's Touch Horatius Bonar 373 

Prospice Robert Browning 374 

1 Hold Still From the German 374 

Gethsemane Ella Wheeler Wilcox 375 

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth 

Arthur Hugh Clough 376 



CONTENTS xxi 

PAGE 

My Legacy Helen Hunt Jackson 377 

Bringing Our Sheaves Elizabeth A kers Allen (Florence Percy) 378 

Follow Me Ahram T. Ryan 379 

Hope, Faith, Love From the German of Schiller 379 

Take Heart • . . Edjta Dean Proctor 380 

How We Learn Horatius Bonar 380 

Reaper of Life's Harvest Anonymous 381 

Memorial Hymn — J.A.Garfield David Swing 381 

Ripe Grain Dora Read Goodale 382 

To-Morrow Christina G. Rossetti 382 

All is Well Alfred, Lord Tennyson 382 

Parted Friends James Montgomery 383 

Peace Mary Clemnter Afnes 384 

I Shall Be Satisfied Anonymous 385 

This World is All a Fleeting Show . . Thomas Moore 385 

I Too Constance Fenimore Woolson 386 

The Bird Let Loose in Eastern Skies . . Thomas Moore 387 

All Before Anonymous 387 

Up-hill Christina G. Rossetti 388 

When Sarah Woolsey {Susan Coolidge) 389 

O May I Join the Choir Invisible 

Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot) 390 

A Wish Matthew Arnold 391 

Life Anna Letitia Barbauld 392 

A Rhyme of Life Charles Warren Stoddard 393 

Now AND Afterwards .... Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 393 

Rest Mary Woo'sey Howland 394 

Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping . . Horatius Bonar 395 

The Silent Land .......... Kate Seymour McLean 396 

Heaven '. Nancy Priest Wakefield 396 

The Dying Christian to His Soul .... Alexander Pope 397 

Dying Hymn Alice Gary 397 

Hereafter Harriet Prescott Spofford 398 

At First Amanda T. Jones 399 

Immortality Richard Henry Dana 399 

The Immortal Part Joseph Addison 400 

Ode on Immortality William Wordsworth 400 

Song of Angiola in Heaven Austin Dobson 405 

The Discoverer Edmund Clarence Stedman 406 

There is No Death Edward Bulwer Lytton 408 

No More Sea Anonymous 409 

The Other World ..... ... Harriet Beecher Stowe 409 

Two Worlds Mortimer Collins 410 



xxii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Spiritual Communions Alfred, Lord Tennyson 412 

The Future Life -. William Cullen Bryant 412 

Over THE River ......... Nancy Priest Wakefield 413 

Only Waiting Frances Laughton Mace 414 

I Would Not Live Alway . . William Augustus Muhlenberg 415 

Nearer Home Phcehe Cary 416 

Longing for Home Jean Ingelow 417 

Ministry of Angels Edmund Spenser 418 

Nearer,. My God, to Thee Sarah Flower Adams 419 

The Better Way Jean Ingelow 420 

Abide with Me Henry Francis Lyte 42 1 

The Way, the Truth, and THE Life . . . Theodore Parker 422 

Lead, Kindly Light . .. * John Henry Newman 422 

God John Bowring 422 

The Eternal Percy Bysshe Shelley 425 

Mutability . . . .- Edmund Spenser 426 

Crossing the Bar Alfred, Lord Tennyson 426 

Part XI. — Scattered Leaves 

Music in Camp John R. Thompson 429 

Before the Gate William Dean Howells 431 

Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt . 431 

Cleon and I Charles Mackay 432 

The Age of Wisdom .... William Makepeace Thackeray 432 

The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes 433 

The Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold 434 

Daniel Gray Josiah Gilbert Holland 436 

I 'm Growing Old John Godfrey Saxe 437 

Wild Oats . Charles Kingsley 439 

The Water That Has Passed Sarah Doudney 439 

The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 440 

Sweet Clover Wallace Rice 441 

A Hundred Years to Come . . William Goldsmith Brown 441 

Vertue George Herbert 442 

Where Lies the Land Arthur Hugh Clough 442 

A Farewell Charles Kingsley 443 

After the Ball Nora Perry 443 

The Old Sergeant Byron Forceythe Willson 445 

The Place Where Man Should Die Michael Joseph Barry 448 

The Bells of Shandon . Francis Mahony {Father Prout) 449 

Song of the Forge Afwnymous 451 

The Babe Sir William Jones 453 

Apple Blossoms Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward 453 



CONTENTS xxiii 

PAGE 

Pictures OF Memory Alice Car y 454 

Woman Eaton Stannard Barrett 455 

Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe 455 

Old Times Aftonymous 456 

A Woman's Love John Hay 456 

Fishing Song Rose Terry Cooke 457 

A Life on the Ocean Wave Epes Sargent 458 

Alone by the Bay Louise Chandler Moulton 459 

The Tempest James Thomas Fields 459 

My Mother Nathaniel Parker Willis 460 

At Sea John Townsend Trowbridge 460 

In the Sea Hiram Rich 461 

Woodman, Spare that Tree George P. Morris 462 

Album Verses Washington Irving 463 

Waiting John Burroughs ,463 

Life's Incongruities Egbert Phelps 464 

Equinoctial Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney 465 

The Mysteries William Dean Howells 465 

Ruth Thomas Hood 466 

The Late Spring Louise Chandler Moulton 466 

Thought Christopher Pearse Cranch 467 

Blindness John Milton 467 

Night and Death Joseph Blanco White 468 

The Closing Scene Thomas Buchanan Read 468 

Endurance .... Elizabeth Akers Allen {Florence Percy) 470 

Outgrown Julia C. R. Dorr 471 

The Penitent John Keats 472 

The Aim of Life Philip James Bailey 473 

Fame From Schiller 473 

Mother, Home, Heaven .... William Goldsmith Brown 474 

The End of the Play . . . William Makepeace Thackeray 474 

Ring Out, Wild Bells ...... Alfred, I^rd Tennyson 476 

The Last Word Matthew Arnold 477 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer . . John Keats 478 

Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant 478 

The Chambered Nautilus .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 480 

Self-Dependence Matthew Arnold 481 

The Destruction of Sennacherib lA)rd Byron 482 

The Bridge Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 482 

Song in Imitation of the Elizabethans . William Watson 484 

Sovereign Poets . . . . ' . Lloyd Mifflin 484 

Planting the Tree Henry Abbey 485 

The Happiest Heart John Vance Cheney 485 



xxiv CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Fool's Prayer Edward Rowland Sill 485 

Heart's Content Anonymous 486 

Revelry in India Bartholomew Bowling 487 

The Man with the Hoe Edwin Markham 489 

The Barefoot Boy John Greenleaj Whittier 490 

The Sonnet Richard Watson Gilder 492 

The Sonnet John Addington Symonds 493 

The Sonnet's Voice Theodore Watts-Dunton 493 

A Sonnet Dante Gabriel Rossetti 494 

A V/iSH Samuel Rogers 494 

The Tiger William Blake 494 

The Quiet Life Alexander Pope 495 

The Ballot John Pierpont 496 

Invictus William Ernest Henley 496 

Requiem Robert Louis Stevenson 496 

Recessional Rudyard Kipling 496 

The Last Camp-Fire Sharlot M. Hall 497 

To-Day Lydia Avery Coonley Ward 498 

Each in his Own Tongue .... William Herbert Carruth 499 

Christmas Hymn Aljred Domett 500 

Aristocracy Emily Dickinson 501 

Isolation Matthew Arnold 501 

The Village Blacksmith . Henry Wadsworth Longjellotv 502 

Morality Matthew Arnold 503 

Brahma Ralph Waldo Emerson 503 

Heredity Lydia Avery Coonley Ward 504 

The Celestial Surgeon Robert Louis Stevenson 504 

The Starry Host John Lancaster Spalding 504 

Danny Deever Rudyard Kipling 505 

Song Aljred, Lord Tennyson 506 

Hesper — Venus Aljred, Lord Tennyson 506 

The French Revolution Matthew Arnold 506 

As I Came Down from Lebanon Clinton Scollard 507 

What Have I Done Lillian Blanche Fearing 508 

The Day is Done .... . Henry Wadsworth Longjellow 509 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



[American authors are indicated by A. Others are British. The figures in par- 
entheses are dates of birth and death.] 



ABBEY, HENRY. 
(A . 1842- 

Planting the Tree 

ADAM, JEAN. 
(1710-1765.) 
Sailor's Wife, The 

ADAMS, SARAH FLOWER. 

(1805-1849.) 
Nearer, My God, to Thee . . 

ADDISON, JOSEPH. 
(1672-17 19.) 

Immortal Part, The 

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY 
• U. 1836- 

After the Rain 

Before the Rain 

Three Roses 

ALISON, RICHARD. 

Cherry Ripe 

ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS. 

(Florence Percy.) 
(^.1832- 

Bringing Our Sheaves . . . . 

Endurance 

Old Story, The 

AMES, MARY CLEMMER. 
{A. 1839-1884.) 
Peace 

ANDERSON, ALEXANDER. 

(1845- 
"Bairnies, Cuddle Doon" . . . 

ARNOLD, EDWIN. 
(1832-1904.) 

Lord Raglan 

She and He 

Song of Krishna 

ARNOLD, GEORGE. 

{A. 1834-1865.) 

Alone by the Hearth 

Jolly Old Pedagogue, The. . . 
September 



PAGE PAGE 

ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 

(1822-1888.) 

485 French Revolution, The . . . 506 

Isolation 501 

Last Word, The 477 

44 Longing 178 

Morality 503 

Self-Dependence 481 

Wish, A 391 

4^9 AUSTIN, ALFRED. 
(1835- 

Agatha 337 

400 AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 
(1570-1638.) 
I do Confess Thou 'rt Sweet . . 164 
1°^ BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. 
l°° (1816-1902.) 

3°9 Aim of Life, The 473 

, BARBAULD, ANNA LETITIA. 
'^° (1743-1825.) 

Life 392 

BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 
(1750-1825.) 

378 Auld Robin Gray 298 

470 BARR, MATTHIAS. 
i8s (1831- 

Only a Baby Small 33 

BARRETT, EATON STAN- 
384 NARD. (1785-1820.) 

Woman 455 

BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH. 
37 Place Where Man Should Die . 44 

BEATTIE, JAMES. 
(1735-1805.) 

351 Summer Morn, A 66 

343 BEATTY, PAKENHAM. 

189 Recompense 190 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCH- 
ER. (1586-1616 ; 1576- 
115 1625.) 

434 Take, O Take Those Lips 
68 Away 161 

(xxv) 



XXVI 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 

BEDDOES .THOMAS LOVELL. 

(1803-1849.) 

How Many Times 163 

BEERS, ETHEL LYNN. 

U. 1827-1879.) 

Not One to Spare 40 

BENJAMIN, PARK. 
(A. 1809-^864.) 
Old Sexton, The 316 

BERKELEY, GEORGE. 

(1684-1753-) 
Westward the Course of Empire 218 

BLAKE, WILLIAM. 
(1757-1827.) 

Tiger, The 494 

BOKER, GEORGE HENRY. 
U . 1823-1890.) 

Dirge for a Soldier 349 

BONAR, HORATIUS. 
(1808-1889.) 
Beyond the Smiling and the 

Weeping 395 

How to Live 365 

How we Learn 380 

Master's Touch, The 373 

BOURDILLON, FRANCIS W. 
(1852- 
Night Has a Thousand Eyes, 
The 134 

BOWRING, JOHN. 
(1792-1872.) 
God (from the Russian) .... 422 
BRAINARD, JOHN GARDI- 
NER CALKINS. U. 1796- 
1828.) 
I Saw Two Clouds at Morning . 193 

BROWN, WILLIAM GOLD- 
SMITH. U. 1812-1905.) 

Hills were Made for Freedom . 201 

Hundred Years to Come, A . . 441 

Mother, Home, Heaven . . . 474 

BROWNING, ELIZABETH 
BARRETT. (1809-1861.) 

De Profundis 369 

How do I Love Thee 167 

My Heart and I 3^4 

Three Kisses i74 

BROWNING, ROBERT. 
(1812-1889.) 

April in England 61 

Evelyn Hope 296 

Never the Time and the Place . 180 

Prospice 374 

Shelley • • "7 

Two in the Campagna .... 17 5 

Woman's Last Word, A ... 195 

Year 's at the Spring, The. . . 60 

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 
{A. 1794-1878.) 

Blessed are They that Mourn . 373 

Death of the Flowers, The . . 300 

Evening Wind, The 95 

Fringed Gentian, To the ... 79 

Future Life, The 412 

June 63 

Thanatopsis 478 



PAGE 

BRYDGES, SIR SAMUEL EG- 
ERTON. (1762-1837.) 

Echo and Silence no 

BUCHANAN, ROBERT. 
(1841-1901.) 
" O Mither, Dinna Dee ! " . . 313 

BURNS, ROBERT. 
(1759-1796.) 

Absence 173 

Ae Fond Kiss Before we Part . 168 

Afton Water . 165 

Auld Lang Syne 140 

Banks o' Doon, The 331 

Bannockbum 218 

Bonnie Mary 173 

Highland Mary 319 

John Anderson, My Jo ... . 44 

Mary in Heaven, To 297 

Mary Morison 170 

O, My Luve 's Like a Red, Red 

Rose 175 

O, Saw ye Bonnie Lesley . . . 165 

BURROUGHS, JOHN. 

U.1837- 
Waiting 463 

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON 
NOEL, LORD. (178871824.) 

Destructionof Sennacherib, The 482 
Eternal Spirit of the Chainless 

Mind 228 

Fair Greece! Sad Relic of De- 
parted Worth '. 204 

Fall of Greece, The 202 

First Love ■ 166 

Imaginative Sympathy with 

Nature 58 

Nevermore 332 

Night 93 

Ocean, The 86 

Stars 94 

Thomas Moore, To 142 

Thunder-Storm in the Alps, A . 99 

Unreturning Brave, The . . . 243 

Waterloo 242 

CAMPBELL, THOMAS. 
(1777-1844.) 

Battle of the Baltic 246 

Downfall of Poland 201 

Hohenlinden 244 

Ye Mariners of England ... 241 

CAREY, HENRY. 

(1663-1743.) 
God Save the King ..... 221 

CARLETON, WILL M. 

(A. 1845- 
New Church Organ, The ... 272 

CARLYLE, THOMAS. 
(1795-1881.) 

Adieu 169 

Heard are the Voices 365 

CARMAN, BLISS. 
(^.1861- 

Mendicants, The 126 

CARRUTH, WILLIAM HER- 
BERT. 
Each in his own Tongue . . . 499 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



xxvu 



PAGE 

GARY, ALICE. 

U. 1820-187 1.) 

Dying Hymn 397 

Pictures of Memory 454 

CARY,PH(EBE. 

U. 1824-187 1.) 

Lovers, The 280 

Nearer Home 416 

CAWEIN, MADISON. 
U.1865- 

Wind-Flower, To a 79 

CHATTERTON, THOMAS. 
(1752-1770.) 

My Love is Dead 331 

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 
(1328-1400.) 

Daisy, The 78 

CHENEY, JOHN VANCE. 
U • 1848- 
Happiest Heart, The 485 

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 

(1819-1861.) 
Green Fields of England ... 215 
Say not the Struggle Nought 

Availeth 376 

Where Lies the Land .... 442 
COLERIDGE, HARTLEY. 

( 1 796-1849.) 
She is not Fair to Outward View 186 

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAY- 
LOR. (1772-1834) 

Hymn before Sunrise 89 

Kubla Khan 108 

COLLINS, MORTIMER. 
(1827-1878.) 
Two Worlds 410 

COLLINS, WILLIAM. 

(1720-1756.) 

How Sleep the Brave 236 

COLLYER, ROBERT. 

U. 1823- 

Saxon Grit 215 

COLMAN, GEORGE. 

(1762-1836.) 
Gluggity GJug . 268 

CONSTABLE, HENRY. 
(1560-16 1 2.) 
Pain of Love 163 

COOKE, ROSE TERRY. 
{A. 1827-1892.) 

Fishing Song 457 

COOLBRITH, INA. 
When the Grass Shall Cover 

Me 311 

COOLIDGE, SUSAN. (See 
Woolsey, Sarah.) 

CORNWALL, BARRY. (See 
Procter, Bryan Waller.) 

COTTON, CHARLES. 

(1630-1687.) 
Invitation to Izaak Walton . . 14s 

COWPER, WILLIAM. 
(1731-1800.) 
Love of Liberty 199 



PAGE 

Winter yo 

Winter Evening at Home, A . . 46 

CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MUL- 
OCK. (1826-1887.) 

In Our Boat 113 

Now and Afterwards 393 

C R A N C H, CHRISTOPHER 
PEARSE. U- 1813-1892.) 
Thought 467 

CRAWFORD, JULIA. 

We Parted in Silence 186 

CROSS, MARIAN EVANS 
LEWES. (George Eliot.) 
(1820-1880.) 

Day is Dying 94 

O, May I Join the Choir Invis- 
ible 390 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 

(1784-1842.) 
It 's Hame, and It 's Hame . . 46 

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM. 

{A. 1824-1892.) 
Egyptian Serenade 118 

DANA, RICHARD HENRY. 

(^.1787-1878.) 
Immortality 399 

DARWIN, ERASMUS. 

(1731-1802.) 
Loves of the Plants 47 

DELAND, MARGARET. 

(^.i8s7- 
Love's Wisdom 194 

DIBDIN, CHARLES. 

(1745-1814.) 
Sailor's Consolation, The . . . 279 

DICKENS, CHARLES. 
(1812-1870.) 
Ivy Green, The 440 

DICKINSON, EMILY. 
{A. 1830-1886.) 

Aristocracy 501 

Autumn 70 

Book, A 134 

Indian Summer 70 

Love-Letter, The 190 

DOBELL, SYDNEY. 
(1824-1875.) 
Basking 108 

DOBSON, AUSTIN. 
(1840- 

Angelus Song 311 

Before Sedan 318 

Cradle, The. 310 

Song of Angiola in Heaven . . 405 

DODGE, MARY MAPES. 
(A. 1838-1905.) 
Two Mysteries .312 

DOMETT, ALFRED. 
(1811-1887.) 
Christmas Hymn 500 

DORR, JULIA C. R. 
{A. 1825- 
Outgrown 471 



XXVlll 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



DOUDNEY, SARAH. 

(1843- 
Water That has Passed, The . 439 

DOUGLAS. Usth Cent.) 

Annie Laurie 171 

DOWLING, BARTHOLOMEW. 

Revelry in India 487 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. 
(A. 1795-1820.) 

American Flag, The 219 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 
(1563-1631.) 

Parting, A 164 

DUFFERIN, LADY. 
(1807-1867.) 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 339 

DUFFY, SIR CHARLES 
GAVAN. (1816-1903.) 

Patriot's Bride, The 191 

EASTMAN, CHARLES GAM- 
AGE. (A. 1816-1860.) 
Farmer Sat in his Easy Chair . 39 
ELIOT, GEORGE. (See Cross, 
Marian Evans Lewes.) 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 
{A. 1 803-1 882.) 

Brahma. . . . 503 

Concord Hymn 227 

Responses 369 

FAWCETT, EDGAR. 
(4.1847-1904.) 
Bird of Passage 190 

FEARING, LILLIAN 
BLANCHE. {A.) 
What Have I Done ..... 508 
FIELD, EUGENE. 
{A. 1850-1895.) 
Wanderer, The 119 

FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS. 
(A. 1817-1881.) 

In a Strange Land 48 

Nantucket Skipper, The ... 281 

Tempest, The 459 

FINCH, FRANCIS MILES. 
U.1827- 
Blue and the Gray, The ... 348 
FITZGERALD, EDWARD. 
( 1 809-1 883.) 
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, 

From the . 345 

FORD, JOHN. 
(1586-1639.) 
Fancies 105 

FOSTER, STEPHEN COL- 
LINS. (/I. 1826-1864.) 
My Old Kentucky Home ... 48 

Old Folks at Home 47 

GANNETT, WILLIAM C. 
{A. 1840- 
Together 192 

GILDER, RICHARD WATSON. 
(A . 1844- 

Dawn 91 

Sonnet, The 492 



PAGE 

GLYNDON, HOWARD. {See 
Searing, Laura C. Redden.) 

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. 

(1728-1774.) 

Better Country, The 213 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad 

Dog, An 283 

National Decay ........ 203 

GOODALE, DORA READ. 
(A . 1866- 
Ripe Grain 382 

boODALE, ELAINE. 

(4.1863- 
Ashes of Roses . 301 

GRAY, THOMAS. 

(1716-1771.) 
Elegy Written in a Country 

Churchyard 322 

GRISWOLD, HATTIE TYNG. 

{A. 1840- 
Under the Daisies 327 

HALL, SHARLOT M. {A.) 

Last Camp-fire, The 497 

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. 

(A. 1795-1867.) 
Joseph Rodman Drake .... 144 
Patriot's Death, The 217 

HALPINE, CHARLES GRA- 
HAM. (4. 1829-1868.) 
Janette's Hair 179 

HAMILTON, WILLIAM. 

(1704-1754.) 
Braes of Yarrow, The .... 340 

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. 

(4. 1839-1902.) 

Aged Stranger, The 290 

Dickens in Camp 353 

Society upon the Stanislaus, The 286 

HAY, JOHN. 

{A. 1838-1905.) 
Woman's Love, A 456 

HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. 

{A. 1831-1886.) 

Love Scorns Degrees 189 

Pre-Existence 129 

HEMANS, FELICIA DORO- 
THEA. (1793-1835) 
Graves of a Household .... 52 

Hour of Death, The 335 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . 228 

HENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST. 
(1849- 
Invictus. 496 

HERBERT, GEORGE. 
(1593-1633.) 

Vertue 442 

HERRICK, ROBERT. 
(1591-1674.) 

Julia 160 

Violets 75 

HIGGINSON, ELLA. 
(4. 1862- 
Four-Leaf Clover 79 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



XXIX 



PAGE 

HOGG, JAMES. 
(1770-1835-) 
Love is Like a Dizziness . . . 267 

Skylark, The 82 

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GIL- 
BERT. U. 1819-1881.) 

Cradle Song 34 

Daniel Gray 436 

Gradatim 366 

Sleeping and Dreaming .... 134 
HOLMES, OLIVER WEN- 
DELL. (A. 1809-1894.) 
Chambered Nautilus, The . . 480 

Last Leaf, The 433 

Moore Centennial Celebration, 

For the 148 

No Time Like the Old Time . 49 
HOOD, THOMAS. 
(1798-1845.) 

Death-Bed, The 303 

I Remember, I Remember . . 51 

Ruth 466 

HOUGHTON, LORD. (See 
Milnes, Richard Monckton.) 
HOVEY, RICHARD. 
{A. 1864-1900.) 

Unmanifest Destiny 234 

HOWE, JULIA WARD. 
(A. 1819- 
Battle-Hymn of the Republic . 258 

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN. 
(^.1837- 

Bef ore the Gate 431 

Mysteries, The ....... 465 

HOWLAND, MARY WOOL- 
SEY. (^.1832-1864.) 
Rest 394 

HUNT, LEIGH. 

(1784-1859.) 

Abou Ben Adhem 431 

Jenny Kissed Me i7j 

INGELOW, JEAN. 

(1820-1897.) 

Better Way, The 420 

Like a Laverock in the Lift . . 33 
Longing for Home 417 

IRVING, WASHINGTON. 

(A. 1783-1859.) 
Album Verses 463 

JACKSON, HELEN HUNT 
(4. 1831-1885.) 

My Legacy 377 

JOHNSON, ROBERT UNDER- 
WOOD. (^.1853- 
Wistful Days, The 116 

JOHNSON, ROSSITER. 
U- 1840- 
Soldier-Poet, A 144 

JOHNSON, SAMUEL. 
(1709-1784.) 
Charles XII of Sweden .... 204 

JONES, AMANDA T. 

(^.1835- 

At First 399 

We Twain 180 



JONES, SIR WILLIAM. 

(1746-1794.) 

Babe, The 453 

What Constitutes a State . . . 205 
JONSON, BEN. 

( 1 573-1637.) 
Celebration of Charis, A . . . 158 
Drink to Me Only with Thine 

Eyes 156 

Shepherd's Love, The .... 157 

KEATS, JOHN. 
(1795-1821.) 

Nature's Delights 58 

Ode to a Nightingale 84 

On First Looking into Chap- 
man's Homer 478 

Penitent, The 472 

KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT. 
{A. 1779-1843.) 
Star-Spangled Banner, The . . 220 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 
(1819-1875-) 

Farewell, A 443 

Sands of Dee 308 

Three Fishers, The 347 

Wild Oats 439 

KINNEY, COATES. 
(A. 1826-1904.) 
Rain on the Roof 50 

KIPLING, RUDYARD. 
(1865- 

Danny Deever 505 

Recessional 496 

LAIDLAW, WILLIAM. 
(1780-1845-) 
Lucy's Flittin' 328 

LAMB, CHARLES. 

(1775-1834-) 
Old Famihar Faces, The . . . .327 

LAMB, MARY. 

(1765-1847-) 
Choosing a Name 35 

LANIER, SIDNEY. 

U- 1842-1881.) 
Battle of Lexington, The ... 226 

Evening Song 187 

LANIER, SIDNEY AND CLIF- 
FORD. 
Power of Prayer, The. .... 284 

LARCOM, LUCY. 

(.A. 1826-1893-) 
Hannah Binding Shoes .... 308 
Strip of Blue, A 127 

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. 

(1866- 
Passionate Reader to his Poet, 

The 130 

LELAND, CHARLES G. 

(A. 1824-1903.) 
Hans Breitmann's Party . . . 274 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY 
WADSWORTH. {A . 1807- 
1882.) 
Arsenal at Springfield, The . . 263 
Bridge, The 482 



XXX 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 

ChUdren's Hour, The .... 38 

Day is Done 509 

Rainy Day, The 302 

Village Blacksmith, The . . . 502 

LOVELACE, RICHARD. 
(1618-1658.) 
Althea, To, from Prison . . . 158 

LOVER, SAMUEL. 
(1797-1868.) 
Rory O'More 269 

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 
(,A. 1819-1891.) 

Auf Wiedersehen 172 

June 65 

Unreturning Brave, The . . . 350 

LYALL, A. C. 

(183s- 
Hindoo's Search for Truth, A . 367 

LYLY, JOHN. 

(1553-1600.) 
Cupid and Campaspe .... 159 

LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID. 
(1490-1555.) 
Carman's Account of a Lawsuit, 
A 271 

LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS. 

( 1 793-1847.) 
Abide with Me 421 

LYTTON, EDWARD BULWER. 

(1803-1873.) 
There is no Death 408 

MACAULAY, THOMAS BAB- 
INGTON. (1800-1859.) 
Battle of Ivry, The 244 

MACE, FRANCES LAUGHTON. 
{A. 1836-1899-) 
Only Waiting 414 

MACKAY, CHARLES. 
(1814-1889 ) 
Cleon and I 432 

MAHONY.FRANCIS (Father 
Prout.) (1805-1866.) 
Bells of Shandon, The .... 449 
Obsequies of David the Painter 354 

MARKHAM, EDWIN 

(A. 1852- 
Man with the Hoe, The . . . 489 
MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 
(1564-1593) 
Passionate Shepherd to His 

Love, The 162 

MARSTON, PHILIP 
BOURKE. (1850-1887.) 
If You Were Here 184 

MAS SEY, GERALD. 

(1828- 
O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear 196 

McLEAN, KATE SEYMOUR. 
(A.) 
Silent Land. The 396 

McMASTER, GUY HUMPH- 
REY. (A. 1829-1887.) 
Carmen Bellicosum 257 



PAGE 

MIFFLIN, LLOYD. 

(A. 1846- 
Sovereign Poets 484 

MILLER, JOAQUIN. 
(A . 1841- 

Dreamers 105 

Sierras The 88 

MILLER, WILLIAM. 
(1810-1872.) 

Willie Winkie 39 

MILNES, RICHARD MONCK- 
TON. (Lord Houghton.) 
(1809-1885.) 

Brookside, The 183 

MILTON, JOHN. 
(1608-1674.) 

Blindness 467 

Hail, Holy Light 92 

Massacre in Piedmont, On the 203 
MONTGOMERY, JAMES. 

(1771-1854-) 
Parted Friends 383 

MOODY, WILLIAM VAUGHN. 
(A. 1869- 
We are Our Fathers' Sons . . . 235 
MOORE, CHARLES LEONARD. 

(^.i8s4- 
To England 210 

MOORE, THOMAS. 

(1779-1852.) 
Bird Let Loose in Eastern Skies 387 
Curse on the Traitor, A . . . . 206 
This World is all a Fleeting 

Show 385 

MORRIS, GEORGE P. 
(A. 1802-1864.) 
Woodman, Spare that Tree . . 462 
MORRIS, WILLIAM. 
(1834-1896-) 
Idle Singer of an Empty Day . 112 

October 69 

MOULTON, LOUISE CHAND- 
LER. (^.1835- 

Alone by the Bay 459 

Late Spring, The 466 

MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM 
AUGUSTUS. (1796-187 7.) 
I Would not Live Alway . . 415 

MULOCK, DINAH MARIA. 
(See Craik, Dinah Maria Mul- 
lock.) 

MUNBY, ARTHUR J. 

(1837- 
Doris 177 

NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY. 
(1801-1890.) 

Lead, Kindly Light 422 

NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZA- 
BETH SARAH. 
(1808-1877.) 
We Have Been Friends To- 
gether 141 

O'HARA, THEODORE. 

{A. -1867.) 
Bivouac of the Dead, The . . 305 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



XXXI 



PAGE 

O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE. 
(A. 1844-1800.) 

At Best 117 

Forever 139 

O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR. 
(1844-1881.) 

If She but Knew 303 

We axe the Music Makers ... 1 1 1 

PALMER, J. W. 

(A. 1825- 
Stonewall Jackson's Way . . . 260 

PARKER, THEODORE. 

(4. 1812-1860.) 
The Way, the Truth, the Life . 422 

PATMORE, COVENTRY. 

(1823-1896.) 
Toys, The 305 

PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. 
(.4. 1792-1852.) 
Home, Sweet Home 46 

PEALE, REMBRANDT. 

(^.1778-1860.) 
Don't be Sorrowful, Darling. . 43 

PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES. 
(A. 1795-1857.) 
Seneca Lake, To 87 

PERCY, FLORENCE. (^See Al- 
len, Elizabeth Akers.) 

PERRY, NORA. 
(A. 1841-1896.) 

After the Ball 443 

Some Day of Days 133 

PHELPS, EGBERT. 

(^.1838- 
Life's Incongruities 464 

PIATT, SALLIE M. B. 
(A . 1836- 
Into the World and Out ... 310 
My Babes in the Wood. ... 36 

PIERPONT, JOHN. 
(A. 1 785-1866.) 

Ballot, The = . 496 

Warren's Address 225 

POE, EDGAR ALLAN. 
(J. 1811-1849.) 

Annabel Lee 455 

Convalescence 113 

To One in Paradise 313 

POPE, ALEXANDER. 

(1688-1744.) 
Dying Christian to His Soul, The 397 
Quiet Life, The 495 

POWERS, HORATIO NELSON. 
(A . 1826-1890.) 

Chimney Swallows 118 

Our Sister 140 

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. 
(1825-1864.) 
Woman's Question, A . . . . 194 

PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER. 
(Barry Cornwall.) 
(1787-1874.) 
Life, A 333 



PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN. 

(A . 1838- 
Take Heart 380 

PROUT, FATHER. (See Ma- 
hony, Francis.) 

RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 

(1552-1618.) 
Nymph's Reply to the Passion- 
ate Shepherd, The 162 

RAMSAY, ALLAN. 
(1686-1758.) 
Song 157 

RANDALL, JAMES R. 

{A. 1839- 
My Maryland 258 

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. 
(.4. 1822-1872.) 

Closing Scene, The 468 

Drifting 106 

REALF, RICHARD. 
{A. 1834-1878.) 

Apocalypse 232 

Indirection no 

My Slain 304 

Old Man's Idyl, An . . . . 131 

Vale 352 

RICE, WALLACE. 
(A . 1859- 
Sweet Clover 441 

RICH, HIRAM. (A.) 
In the Sea 461 

RICHARDS, WILLIAM C. 
(A. 1792-1847.) 
Rosalie 315 

* RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB. 

(.A. 1853- 
Orchard-Lands of Long Ago, 

The 114 

ROBERTS, CHARLES G. D. 
(1860- 
Canada *. . . 212 

ROGERS, SAMUEL. 
(1736-1855.) 
Wish, A 494 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. 
(1830-1894.) 

To-Morrow 382 

Up-Hill 388 

When I am Dead, My Dearest 312 

ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. 
(1828-1882.) 

Blessed Damozel, The 121 

Sonnet, A 494 

RYAN, ABRAMT. 
(A. 1840-1886.) 

Follow Me 379 

Lovesight 310 

RYAN, RICHARD. 

(1796-1849-) 
O, Saw Ye the Lass 187 

SARGENT, EPES. 
(A. 1813-1880.) 
Life on the Ocean Wave, A . . 458 



xxxu 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 

SAXE, JOHN GODFREY. 

U. 1816-1887.) 
I'm Growing Old ...... 437 

Kiss Me Softly 182 

SCOLLARD, CLINTON. 

{A . 1860- 
As I Came Down from Lebanon 507 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 
(1771-1832.) 

Border Song 248 

Flodden Field 239 

Patriotism . . 225 

SEARING, LAURA C. REDDEN. 
(Howard Glyndon.) 
{A. 1840- 
Mazzini 214 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 
(1564-1616.) 

Absence 161 

Fidele 295 

Hark, Hark, the Lark at Heav- 
en's Gate Sings 162 

Morning 91 

Sea Dirge, A 300 

True Love 155 

When in Disgrace with Fortune 
and Men's Eyes 156 

SHANLEY, CHARLES DAWSON. 
{A. 1811-1875.) 
Civil War 261 

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 
(1792-1822.) 

Eternal, The 425 

I Arise from Dreams of Thee 174 

I Fear Thy Kisses 191 

Invocation to Nature .... 57 

Love's Philosophy 173 

Night 93 

Ode to the West Wind .... 96 

Skylark, To a 80 

SIBLEY, CHARLES. 

Plaidie, The 275 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 

(1554-1586.) 
My True Love Hath my Heart. 156 

SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND. 

{A. 1841-1887.) 
Fool's Prayer, The 485 

SMITH, MAY RILEY. 

(.4 . 1842- 
Tired Mothers 41 

SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE. 
(1721-1771.) 
Independence 200 

SPALDING, JOHN LANCASTER. 

(-4 . 1840- 
Starry Host, The 504 

SPENSER, EDMUND. 
(1553-1599) 

Ministry of Angels 418 

Months and Seasons .... 71 

Mutability 426 

Sunrise 91 

Wake Now, My Love .... 155 

SPERANZA. {See Wilde, Lady.) 



PAGE 

SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRES- 
COTT. (^.1835- 
Hereafter 398 

SPRAGUE, CHARLES. 
(A. 1791-1876.) 
Family Meeting, The .... 53 

STEDMAN, EDMUND CLAR- 
ENCE. (^.1833- 

Discoverer, The 406 

Horace Greeley 356 

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOU- 
IS. ( 1 850-1 894.) 
Celestial Surgeon, The .... 504 

Requiem 496 

STILL. JOHN. 

(1543-1607.) ^ 

Jolly Good Ale and Old ... 270 

STODDARD, CHARLES WAR- 
REN. (A . 1843- 
Rhyme of Life, A 393 

STODDARD, RICHARD 
HENRY. (4.1825-1903-) 
Flight of Youth, The .... 132 

Pearls 183 

STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE. 
(A. 1819-1895.) 
Violet, The 76 

STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. 
{A. 1811-1896.) 

Only a Year 317 

Other World, The 409" 

SUCKLING, SIR JOHN. 
(1609-1641.) 
Why so Pale and Wan, Fond 

Lover? 160 

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON 
CHARLES. (1837- 

Farewell 361 

In Memory of Walter Savage 

Landor 142 

Match, A . 181 

SWING, DAVID. 
(A . 1830-1894.) 
Memorial Hymn — J. A. Gar- 
field 381 

SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON. 
(1840-1893.) 

Sonnet, The 493 

TAYLOR, BAYARD. 

(4. 1825-1878.) ' 

Friend's Greeting, A . . . . 149 

Song of the Camp 256 

TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD. 
(1809-1892.) 

All is Well 382 

Ask Me No More 167 

As through the Land .... 320 
Break, Break, Break .... 333 

Bugle Song 117 

Crossing the Bar 426 

Defence of Lucknow, The . . 252 

Departure, The 168 

Early Spring 60 

Hesper — Venus ...... 506 

Home They Brought her War- 
rior Dead 361 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



XXXIU 



PAGE 

Northern Cobbler, The ... 287 
Of Old Sat Freedom on the 

Heights . . ; 199 

O Swallow, Flying South . . 170 

"Revenge," The 248 

Ring Out, Wild Bells .... 476 

Separation 172 

Song _. 506 

Spiritual Communions .... 412 

Tears, Idle Tears 295 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice.. . 146 

To Victor Hugo ...... 147 

THACKERAY, W I L L I A M 
MAKEPEACE. (1811-1863.) 

Age of Wisdom, The . ... 432 

End of the Play, The .... 474 

Little Billee 271 

Sorrows of Werther, The ... 291 

THAXTER, CELIA. 
(A. 1835-1894-) 
Song 120 

THOM, WILLIAM. 
( 1 789-1 848.) 
Mitherless Bairn, The .... 336 

THOMAS, EDITH M. 
(4.1854- 
Mother England 207 

THOMPSON, JOHN R 
(A. 1823-1872.) 
Music in Camp 429 

THOMPSON, MAURICE. 
{A. -1901.) 
Old Soldiers True 262 

THOMSON, JAMES. 
( 1 700-1 748.) 

Freedom of Nature 58 

Nature in Spring 62 

Rainbow, The loi 

Snow-Storm, The 99 

Thunder-Storm, The .... 98 

THOREAU, HENRY DAVID. 
(A. 1817-1862.) 
Upon the Beach 127 

TICKNOR, FRANCIS ORRERY. 

(A.) 
Virginians of the VaUey . . . 234 

TIMROD, HENRY. 
(A. 1829-1867.) 
Decoration Day at Charleston . 349 
Spring in Carolina 62 

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWN- 
SEND. (4.1827- 

At Sea 460 

Summer 67 

WAKEFIELD, NANCY PRIEST. 
(A . 1837-1870.) 

Heaven 396 

Over the River 413 

WALLER, EDMUND . 
(1605-1687.) 
Girdle, A 157 

WARD, ELIZABETH STUART 
PHELPS. (4.1844- 
Apple Blossoms 435 



PAGE 

WARD, LYDIA AVERY COON- 
LEY. {A. 184s- 

Heredity 504 

Orchid 77 

To-Day 498 

WATSON, WILLIAM. 
(1858- 
Song in Imitation of the Eliza- 
bethans 484 

WATTS-DUNTON, THEO- 
DORE. 
Sonnet's Voice, The .... 493 

WEBSTER, DANIEL. 

(A. 1782-1852.) 
Memory of the Heart, The . . 139 

WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO. 

(1775-1841.) 
Night and Death 468 

WHITMAN, WALT. 
(A. 1819-1892.) 
O Captain! My Captain . . . 360 
When Lilacs Last in the Door- 
yard Bloom'd 358 

WHITNEY, MRS. A. D. T. 
(4. 1824- 
Equinoetial 465 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. 

(4. 1807-1892.) 

Barefoot Boy, The 490 

Bayard Taylor 355 

My Playmate 320 

WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER. 

(^.1855- 
Gethsemane 375 

WILDE, LADY. (Speranza.) 
(1826-1896.) 
Voice of the Poor, The . . . 338 

WILDE, OSCAR. 
(1856-1900.) 

Ave Imperatrix 207 

Requiescat 316 

Serenade 188 

WILLIAMS , MARIE B . (4 .) 

First Violet, The 75 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. 

(4. 1807-1867.) 
My Mother 460 

WILLSON, BYRON FOR- 

CEYTHE. (4. 1837-1867.) 

In State 229 

Old Sergeant, The 445 

WINTER, WILLIAM. 
(4.1836- 
Golden Silence, The .... 120 
WOLCOT, JOHN. 
(1738-1819.) 
To a Fish 286 

WOLFE, CHARLES. 
(1791-1823.) 
Burial of Sir John Moore, The 299 
WOODBERRY, GEORGE ED- 
WARD. (4. 1855- 
Rose of Stars, The 129 



XXXIV 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 

WOODWORTH, SAMUEL. 

U.1785-1842.) 
Old Oaken Bucket, The ... 49 
WOOLSEY, SARAH. (Susan 

COOLIDGE.) (A. 1845-1905.) 

In the Mist . 124 

When 389 

WOOLSON, CONSTANCE 
FENIMORE. (A . 1848-1894-) 
I Too 386 

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 

(1770-1850.) 

Cuckoo, To the 83 

Daffodils 78 

England 206 

Lucy 325 

Ode on Immortality 400 

Rainbow, The 102 

She was a Phantom of Delight 178 
Solitary Reaper, The .... 86 
Three Years She Grew ... 326 
Varying Impressions from Na- 
ture 59 

We are Seven 329 

World is too Much with Us, The 57 

WOTTON, SIR HENRY. 
(1568-1639.) 
Happy Life, A 366 

YEATS, WILLIAM BUTLER. 
(1865- 

White Birds, The 187 

YOUNG, EDWARD. 
(1684-1765.) 
Night 92 



PAGE 

ANONYMOUS PIECES AND 

TRANSLATIONS. 

All Before 387 

Bite Bigger 276 

Claribel's Prayer 301 

Distance Lends Enchantment . 133 
Fame (from the German of 

Schiller) 473 

French National Hymn (from 

the French of Rouget de Lisle) 222 
German's Fatherland, The 

(from the German) . ... 224 
Give Me Back My Youth Again 

(from the German of Goethe) . in 

Heart's Content 486 

Hope, Faith, Love (from the 

German of Schiller) .... 379 

Housekeeper's Tragedy, A . . 278 

I Hold Still (from the German) . 374 

I Shall be Satisfied 385 

It Might Have Been .... 333 

John Davidson 282 

No More Sea 409 

Old Times 456 

Popping Corn 277 

Prussian National Hymn (from 

the German) 223 

Reaper of Life's Harvest ... 381 

Restitution 372 

Song of the Forge 451 

Waly, Waly, but I^ove be 

Bonny . . 336 

Who Ne'er his Bread in Sor- 
row Ate (from the German of 

Goethe) 345 

Winifreda 42 



PART I 



By the fireside there are old men seated, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes. 

Asking sadly 
Oj the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, 
Building castles fair with stately stairways, 

Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give them. 

By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only. 

Wife and husband, 
And above them God the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and comfort. 
Wives and children, with fair thoughtful faces, 
Waiting, watching, * . 

For a well-known footstep in the passage. 



GOLDEN POEMS 



PART I 
BY THE FIRESIDE 



LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT 

It 's we two, it 's we two, it 's we two for aye. 
All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

What 's the world, my lass, my love! — what can it do ? 
I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by ; 
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we '11 try. 

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
It 's we two, it 's we two, happy side by side. 
Take a kiss from me, thy man; now the song begins : 
"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins. " 

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, 
Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I '11 dry thine. 
It 's we two, it 's we two, while the world 's away. 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. 

Jean Ingelow. 

ONLY A BABY SMALL 

Only a baby small, 

Dropt from the skies ; 
Only a laughing face, 

Two sunny eyes ; 
Only two cherry lips, 

One chubby nose ; 
Only two little hands. 

Ten little toes. 

Only a golden head. 

Curly and soft ; 
Only a tongue that wags 

Loudly and oft ; 
33 



34 GOLDEN POEMS 

Only a little brain, 

Empty of thought ; 
Only a little heart, 

Troubled with nought. 

Only a tender flower 

Sent us to rear ; 
Only a life to love 

While we are here ; 
Only a baby small, 

Never at rest ; 
Small, but how dear to us, 

God knoweth best. 

Matthias Barr. 



CRADLE SONG 

What is the Ijttle one thinking about ? 

Very wonderful things, no doubt ; 
Unwritten history! 
Unfathomed mystery ! 

Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 

And chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks. 

As if his head were as full of kinks 

And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 

Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears. 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
And he '11 never know 
Where the summers go ; 

He need not laugh, for he '11 find it so. 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown. 
Blind, and wailing, and alone. 

Into the light of day ? 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony ; 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls. 
Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
Barks that were launched on the other side. 
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! 

What does he think of his mother 's eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother's hair ? 
What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 



BY THE FIRESIDE 35 

What does he think of his mother's breast, 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 
Seeking it ever with fresh dehght. 

Cup of his Hfe, and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
With a tenderness she can never tell. 

Though she murmur the words 

Of all the birds, — 
Words she has learned to murmur well ? 

Now he thinks he '11 go to sleep ! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
Over his brow and over his lips. 
Out to his little finger-tips 1 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes! down he goes ! 
See! he 's hushed in sweet repose. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland {Bitter -Sweet). 



CHOOSING A NAME 

I HAVE got a new-born sister ; 

I was nigh the first that kissed her. 

"When the nursing-woman brought her 

To papa, his infant daughter, 

How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! — 

She will shortly be to christen ; 

And papa has made the offer, 

I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her, - 

Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? 

Ann and Mary, they 're too common ; 

Joan 's too formal for a woman ; 

Jane 's a prettier name beside ; 

But we had a Jane that died. 

They would say, if 't was Rebecca, 

That she was a little Quaker. 

Edith 's pretty, but that looks 

Better in old English books ; 

Ellen 's left off long ago ; 

Blanche is out of fashion liow. 

None that I have named as yet 

Are so good as Margaret ; 

Emily is neat and fine ; 

What do you think of Caroline ? 



36 GOLDEN POEMS 

How I 'm puzzled and perplexed 
What to choose or think of next ! 
I am in a little fever 
Lest the name that I should give her 
Should disgrace her or defame her ; — 
I will leave papa to name her. 

Mary Lamb. 



MY BABES IN THE WOOD 

I KNOW a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder. 

Than any story printed in your books. 
You are so glad ? It will not make you gladder ; 

Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks. 

" Is it a fairy story ? " Well, half fairy — 

At least it dates far back as fairies do, 
And seems to me as beautiful and airy ; 

Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true. 

You had a baby sister and a brother, 

Two very dainty people, rosy white, 
Sweeter than all things else except each other — 

Older, yet younger — gone from human sight ! 

And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever, 
And think with yearning tears how each light hand 

Crept toward bright bloom and berries — I shall never 
Know how I lost them. Do you understand ? 

Poor slightly golden heads ! I think I missed them 
First in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way ; 

But when and where with lingering lips I kissed them 
My gradual parting, I can never say. 

Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished 

In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss, 
Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherished. 

For their small sakes, since my most bitter loss. 

I fancy, too, that they were softly covered 

By robins out of apple trees they knew, 
Whose nursling wings in far home sunshine hovered, 

Before the timid world had dropped the dew. 

Their names were — what yours are. At this you wonder ; 

Their pictures are your own, as you have seen ; 
And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under 

Lost leaves — why, it is your dead selves I mean ! 

Sallie M. B. Piatt. 



BY THE FIRESIDE 37 

"BAIRNIES, CUDDLE DOON " 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wi' muckle faucht an' din ; 
"Oh try and sleep, ye waukrif rogues, 

Your feyther 's comin' in !" 
They dinna hear a word I speak ; 

I try an ' gie a frown, 
But aye I hap them up and cry : 

" O bairnies, cuddle doon I " 

Wee Jamie, wi' the curly heid. 

He aye sleeps next the wa'. 
Bangs up and cries : " I want a piece ! " 

The rascal starts them a' ! 
I rin an' fetch them pieces — drinks — 

They stop a wee the soun'. 
Then draw the blankets up and cry : 

" O weanies, cuddle doon ! " 

But scarce five minutes gang, wee Rab 

Cries out frae neath the claes : 
" Mither, mak Tam gie ower at ance ! 

He's kitthn' wi' his taes ! " 
The mischief 's in that Tam for tricks, 

He 'd bother half the toun ; 
But still I hap them up and cry : 

" O bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 

At length they hear their feyther 's step, 

And as he nears the door 
They draw their blankets o'er their heids. 

And Tam pretends to snore. 
" Hae a' the weans been guid ? " he asks, 

As he pits ofif his shoon ; 
" The bairnies, John, are in their beds. 

And lang since cuddled doon ! " 

And just afore we bed oursels 

We look at our wee lambs ; 
Tam has his airm round wee Rab's neck, 

And Rab his airm round Tam's. 
I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 

And as I straik each croun, 
I whisper, till my hairt fills up : 

" O bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wi ' mirth that 's dear to me. 
For sune the big warl's cark an' care 

Will quaten doon their glee. 



38 GOLDENPOEMS 

But come what will to ilka ane, 

May He who sits abune 
Aye whisper, tho' their pows be bald : 

" O bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 

Alexander Anderson. 

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
That is known as the children's hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 

Descending the broad hall stair, 
Grave Alice and laughing AUegra, 

And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence, 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 

To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall, 
By three doors left unguarded. 

They enter my castle wall. 

They climb up into my turret, 

O 'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me : 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 

Their arms about me entwine. 
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 

In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine. 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti. 
Because you have scaled the wall. 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress. 

And will not let you depart. 
But put you into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 



BY THE FIRESIDE 39 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



WILLIE WINKIE 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 

Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 

"Are the weans in their bed ? — for it 's now ten x> 'clock." 

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben ? 

The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen. 

The doug 's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ;• 

But here 's a waukrif laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue : — glow 'r in' like the moon, 
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk ! 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean 's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravelHa' a' her thrums : 
Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane. 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he '11 close an ee ; 
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. . 

William Miller. 



THE FARMER SAT IN HIS EASY CHAIR 

The farmer sat in his easy chair, 

Smoking his pipe of clay. 
While his hale old wife, with busy care, 

Was clearing the dinner away ; 
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes. 
On her grandfather's 'knee was catching flies. 

The old man laid his hand on her head. 

With a tear on his wrinkled face; 
He thought how often her mother, dead. 

Had sat in the self -same place. 
As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, • 
" Don't smoke ! " said the child ; " how it makes you cry ! " 



40 GOLDEN POEMS 

The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, 
Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 

The busy old wife, by the open door, 
Was turning the spinning-wheel ; 

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree 

Had plodded along to almost three. 

Still the farmer sat in his easy chair, 

While close to his heaving breast 
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 

Of his sweet grandchild were pressed ; 
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : 
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day ! 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 

NOT ONE TO SPARE 

" WmcH shall it be ? Which shall it be ? " 

I looked at John — John looked at me 

(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet 

As well as though my locks were jet) ; 

And when I found that I must speak. 

My voice seemed strangely low and weak. 

" Tell me again what Robert said, " 

And then I, Hstening, bent my head. 

" This is his letter: ' I will give 

A house and land while you shall live, 

If, in retiurn, from out your seven. 

One child to me for aye is given.' " 

I looked at John 's old garments worn, 

I thought of all that John had borne 

Of poverty and work and care. 

Which I, though willing, could not share ; 

I thought of seven mouths to feed, 

Of seven little children 's need. 

And then of this. " Come, John, " said I, 

" We '11 choose among them as they lie 

Asleep " ; so, walking hand in hand, 

Dear John and I surveyed our band. 

First to the cradle lightly stepped, 

Where Lilian, the baby, slept, 

Her shining curls, like gold alight, 

A glory 'gainst the pillow white. 

Softly the father stooped to lay 

His rough hand down in a gentle way, 

When dream or whisper made her stir, 

And huskily he said, " Not her ! " 

We stooped beside the trundle-bed, 



BY THE FIRESIDE 41 

And one long ray of lamplight shed 

Athwart the boyish faces there, 

In sleep so pitiful and fair ; 

I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek 

A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 

" He 's but a baby, too, " said I, 

And kissed him as we hurried by. 

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 

" No, for a thousand crowns, not him ! " 

He whispered, while our eyes were dim. 

Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son, 

Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 

Could he be spared ? Nay ; He who gave 

Bids us to befriend him to his grave ; 

Only a- mother's heart can be 

Patient enough for such as he ; 

"And so," said John, " I would not dare 

To send him from our bedside prayer. " 

Then stole we softly up above 

And knelt by Mary, child of love. 

" Perhaps for her 't would better be," 

I said to John. Quite silently 

He lifted up a curl that lay 

Across her cheek in wilful way. 

And shook his head ; " Nay, love ; not thee, " 

The while my heart beat audibly. 

Only one more, our eldest lad. 

Trusty and truthful, good and glad — 

So like his father. "No, John, no, 

I cannot, will not, let him go." 

And so we wrote, in courteous way, 

We could not give one child away ; 

And afterward toil lighter seemed. 

Thinking of that of which we dreamed, 

Happy in truth that not one face 

Was missed from its accustomed place ; 

Thankful to work for all the seven, 

Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 

Ethel Lynn Beers. 



TIRED MOTHERS 

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, 
Your tired knee that has so much to bear ; 

A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. 



42 GOLDEN POEMS 

Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight ; 

You do not prize this blessing overmuch, — 
You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness ! A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 
We are so dull and thankless ; and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 
And now it seems surpassing strange to me. 

That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good. 

And if some night when you sit down to rest, 

You miss this elbow from your tired knee, — 
This restless curling head from off your breast, — 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; 
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 

And ne 'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 

I could not blame you for your heartache then 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret . 

At little children cHnging to their gown ; 
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown. 
If I could find a little muddy boot. 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor, — 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my house once more, — ^ 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day. 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky. 
There is no woman in God's world could say 

She was more blissfully content than I. 
But ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 

Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
My singing birdling from its nest had flown, 

The little boy I used to kiss is dead. 

May Riley Smith. 



WINIFREDA 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing. 
My Winifreda, move your care ; 

Let naught delay the heavenly blessing. 
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 



BY THE FIRESIDE 

What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood, 

We '11 shine in more substantial honors, 
And, to be noble, we '11 be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
Will sweetly sound where'er 't is spoke ; 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, 

No mighty treasures we possess ; 
We '11 find, within our pittance, plenty. 

And be content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason. 

And that 's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling. 
We '11 hand in hand together tread ; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures, 
While round my knees they fondly clung ! 

To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 

And when with envy time transported 

Shall think to rob us of our joys. 
You '11 in your girls again be courted, 

And I '11 go wooing in my boys. 

Anonymous. 



DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DARLING 

O don't be sorrowful, darhng ! 

And don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
Taking the year together, my dear, 

There isn't more night than day. 

'T is rainy weather, my darling ; 

Time 's waves they heavily run ; 
But taking the year together, my dear. 

There is n't more cloud than sun. 

We are old folks now, my darling. 
Our heads are growing gray ; 

But taking the year all round, my dear, 
You will always find the May. 



43 



44 GOLDEN POEMS 

We have had our May, my darling, 

And our roses long ago ; 
And the time of the year is coming, my dear, 

For the silent night and the snow. 

But God is God, my darling. 
Of the night as well as the day ; 

And we feel and know that we can go 
Wherever He leads the way. 

A God of the night, my darHng, 

Of the night of death so grim ; 
The gate that leads out of life, good wife, 

Is the gate that leads to Him. 

Rembrandt Peale. 

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

JiTour bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Burns. 

THE SAILOR'S WIFE 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 

And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
Is this a time to think o ' wark ? 

Ye jades, lay by your wheel ; 
Is this the time to spin a thread. 

When Colin 's at the door ? 
Reach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay, 

And see him come ashore. 
For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There's nae luck at a'. 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 



BY THE FIRESIDE 

And gie to me my bigonet, 

My bishop's satin gown ; 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin 's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 

My stockin 's pearly blue ; 
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, 

For he 's baith leal and true. 

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot ; 
Gie little Kate her button gown. 

And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
It 's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

For he 's been lang awa'. 

There 's twa fat hens upo' the bauk 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak haste and thraw their necks about. 

That Colin weel may fare ; 
And spread the table neat and clean. 

Gar ilka thing look braw, 
For wha can tell how Colin fared 

When he was far awa' ? 

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 

His breath like caller air ; 
His very foot has music in 't 

As he comes up the stair. 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 

In troth, I 'm like to greet ! 

If Colin 's weel and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to keep him sae 

I 'm blest aboon the lave. 
And will I see his face again. 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 

In troth I 'm like to greet. 
For there 's nae luck about the house. 

There 's nae luck at a' ; 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 

Jean Adam. 



45 



46 GOLDENPOEMS 

A WINTER EVENING AT HOME 

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round. 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 



' T is pleasantj through the loopholes of retreat, 
To peep at such a world; to see the stir 
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 

William Cowper (The Task). 

HOME, SWEET HOME 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam. 
Be it ever so humble there 's no place like home ! 
A charm from the skies seems .to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home 1 home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There 's no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : 

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 

The birds singing gaily that came at my call ; — 

Give me them — and the peace of mind dearer than all ! 

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There 's no place like home! 

John Howard Payne. 

IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME 

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, 
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree ; 
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa'. 

The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; 

But I '11 water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannic, 

An' green it will grow in my ain countree. 

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame, fain wad I be. 

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree I 



BY THE FIRESIDE 47 

There 's naught now frae ruin my country can save 
But the keys o 'kind heaven to open the grave, 
That a' the noble martyrs who died for ioyaltie 
May rise again and fight for their ain countree. 
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save. 
The new grass is springing on the top o ' their grave ; 
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my ee, 
" I '11 shine on ye yet in your ain countree. " 
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 

Allan Cunningham. 

OLD FOLKS AT HOME 

'Way down upon the Swanee Ribber, 

Far, far away, — 
Dare 's wha my heart is turning ebber, — 

Dare's wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation, 

Sadly I roam ; 
Still longing for de old plantation, 

And for de old folks at home. 

All de world am sad and dreary, 

Eb 'ry where I roam ; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. 

Far from de old folks at home. 

All round de little farm I wandered, 

When I was young ; 
Den many happy days I squandered, 

Many de songs- 1 sung. 
When I was playing wid my brudder, 

Happy was I ; 
Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! 

Dare let me live and die ! 

All de world am sad and dreary, etc. - 
One little hut among de bushes, — 

One dat I love, — 
Still sadly to my memory rushes, 

No matter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-humming, 

All round de comb ? 
When will I hear the banjo tumming 

Down in my good old home ? 
All de. world am sad and dreary, etc. 

Stephen Collins Foster 



48 GOLDEN POEMS 

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME 

The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home ; 

'T is summer, the darkeys are gay ; 
The corn-top 's ripe and the meadow 's in the bloom, 

While the birds make music all the day ; 
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 

All merry, all happy, all bright ; 
By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door, — 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 

CHORUS. 

Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day !. 
We '11 sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
For our old Kentucky home far away. 

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, 

On the meadow, the hill and the shore ; 
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, 

On the bench by the old cabin door ; 
The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart. 

With sorrow where all was delight ; 
The time has come when the darkeys have to part, 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 

Weep no more, my lady, etc. 

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, 

Wherever the darkey may go ; 
A few more days, and the troubles all will end. 

In the fields where the sugar-cane grow ; 
A few more days to tote the weary load. 

No matter, it will never be light ; 
A few more days till we totter on the road, 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 

Weep no more, my lady, etc. 

Stephen Collins Foster. 

IN A STRANGE LAND 

Oh, to be home again, home again, home again ! 

Under the apple-boughs, down by the mill ; 
Mother is calling me, father is calling me. 

Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering 
Through the green meadows and over the hill ; 

Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, 
CaUing me, calling me, calling me still. 



BY THE FIRESIDE 49 

Oh, once more to be home again, home again, 
Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill, — 

Do you not hear how the voices are calling me. 
Calling me, caUing me, calling me still ? 

James Thomas Fields. 

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME 

There is no time like the old time, when you and I were 
young, 

When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring- 
time sung! 

The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, 

But, oh, the sweet, sweet, violets, the flowers that opened first ! 

There is no place like the old place where you and I were born! 
Where we lifted first our eyehds on the splendors of the morn. 
From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging 

arms that bore. 
Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no 

more ! 

There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morn- 
ing days, 
No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise ; 
Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold, 
But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. 

There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride ; 
Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side 

by side. 
There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, 
And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is gone. 

There are no times like the old times — they shall never be 

forgot ! 
There is no place like the old place — keep green the dear old 

spot ! 
There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven prolong 

their lives ! 
There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our loving 

wives ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! — 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 



50 



GOLDEN POEMS 

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it ; 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it ; 

And e 'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure — 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing. 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss -covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it. 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! 

Samuel Woodworth. 

RAIN ON THE ROOF 

When the humid shadows hover 

Over all the starry spheres. 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears, 
What a bliss to press the pillow 

Of a cottage -chamber bed 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead ! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart ; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start. 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their air-threads into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 



BY THE FIRESIDE 51 

Now in memory comes my mother, 

As she used long years agone, 
To regard the darling dreamers 

Ere she left them till the dawn ; 
Oh, I see her leaning o'er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister. 

With her wings and waving hair 
And her star-eyed cherub brother — 

A serene angelic pair ! — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow. 

With their praise or mild reproof, 
As I listen to the murmur 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And I mind not, musing on her. 

That her heart was all untrue : 
I remember but to love her 

With a passion kin to pain, 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence 

That can work with such a spell 
In the soul's mysterious fountains, 

Whence the tears of rapture well, 
As that melody of nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Coaxes Kinney. 



/ REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

I REMEMBER, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon. 

Nor brought too long a day. 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 



52 GOLDEN POEMS 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the Hly-cups, 

Those flowers made of Hght ! 
The Hlacs, where the robin built, 

An'3'w^ere my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet 1 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 
My spirit flew in feathers then. 

That is so heavy now. 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 
The fir-trees dark and high ; 
, I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky : 
It was a childish ignorance. 

But now 't is little joy 
To know I 'm farther off from heaven 
Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 



GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD 

They grew in beauty side by side, 

They filled one home with glee; 
Their graves are severed far and wide 

By mount, and stream, and sea. 
The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now? 

One 'mid the forests-of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid ; 
The Indian knows his place of rest. 

Far in the cedar shade. 
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 

O 'er his low bed may weep. 



BY THE FIRESIDE 53 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapped his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 
And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
She faded 'mid Italian flowers, 

The last of that bright band. 

And, parted thus, they rest who played 

Beneath the same green tree. 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent-knee ! 
They that with smiles lit up the hall, 

And cheered with song the hearth ; 
Alas for love, if thou wert all, 

And naught beyond, O Earth ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



THE FAMILY MEETING 

We are all here, 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 
All who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is filled, we are all at home 
To-night let no cold stranger come ; 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we 're found. 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot, 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle peace assert her power, 
And kind afiFection rule the hour. 

We 're all — all here. 

We 're not all here ! 
Some are away, — the dead ones dear. 
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth, 
And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. 
Looked in and thinned our little band ; 
Some like a night -flash passed away. 
And some sank lingering day by day ; 
The quiet grave-yard — some lie there, — 
And cruel ocean has his share. 

We 're not all here ! 



54 GOLDENPOEMS 

We are all here. 
Even they — the dead — ' though dead, so dear, 
Fond memory, to her duty true, 
Brings back their faded forms to view. 
How life-like, through the mist of years, 
Each well-remembered face appears ! 
We see them, as in times long past ; 
From each to each kind looks are cast ; 
We hear their words, their smiles behold. 
They 're 'round us as they were of old. 

We are all here ! 

We are all here : 

Father, mother. 

Sister, brother. 
You that I love with love so dear. 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon may we join the gathered dead. 
And by the hearth we now sit 'round 
Some other circle will be found. 
Oh, then, that wisdom may we know 
Which yields a life of peace below ; 
So in the world to follow this 
May each repeat, in words of bliss, 

We 're all — all here. 

Charles Spragxje. 



PART II 



Think me not unkind or rude, 

That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 
I go to the god of the wood 

To fetch his word to men. 

Tax not my sloth that I 

Fold my arms beside the brook ; 
Each cloud that floated in the sky 

Writes a letter in my book. 

Chide me not, laborious band, 
For the idle flowers I brought ; 

Every aster in my hand 
Goes home loaded with a thought. 

There was never mystery 
■ But H is figured in the flowers ; 
Was never secret history 

But birds tell it in the bowers. 

One harvest from thy field 

Homeward brought the oxen strong ; 
A second crop thy acres yield, 

Which I gather in a^song. 



PART II 
NATURE'S VOICES 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howhng at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. Great God 1 I'd rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 

INVOCATION TO NATURE 

Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! 

If our great mother have imbued my soul 

With aught of natural piety to feel 

Your love, and recompense the boon with mine ; 

If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even. 

With sunset and its gorgeous ministers. 

And solemn midnight's tingling silentness ; 

If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, 

And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns 

Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs ; 

If Spring's voluptuous pantings, when she breathes 

Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ; 

If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 

I consciously have injured, but still loved 

And cherished these my kindred ; — then forgive 

This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw 

No portion of your wonted favor now ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley {Alastar). 

57 



58 GOLDEN POEMS 

FREEDOM OF NATURE 

I CARE not, Fortune, what you me deny : 

You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 

You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 

Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; 

You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 

The woods and lawns, by Uving stream, at eve : 

Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace. 

And I their toys to the great children leave : 

Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 

James Thomson {Castle of Indolence). 

NATURE'S DELIGHTS 

O Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight 
Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; 
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, ^ 
Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling streams ; 
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams ; 
Lover of loneliness and wandering, 
. Of upcast eye and tender pondering ! — - 
Thee must I praise above all other glories 
That smile on us to tell delightful stories ; 
For what has made the sage or poet write, 
But the fair paradise of Nature's Ught ? 
In the calm grandeur of a sober line ^ 
We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 
And when a tale is beautifully staid. 
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade ; 
When it is moving on luxurious wings. 
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings ; 
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces. 
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; 
O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-brier. 
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 
While at our feet the voice of crystal bubbles 
Charms us at once away from all our troubles ; 
So that we feel uplifted from the world, 
Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled. 

John Keats {Nature and the Poets). 

IMAGINATIVE SYMPATHY WITH NATURE 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye. 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 



NATURE'S VOICES 59 

Of your departing voices is the knoll 

Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. 

But where of ye, O tempests ! is the goal ? 

Are ye like those within the human breast ? 

Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 



VARYING IMPRESSIONS FROM NATURE 

I CANNOT paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
- Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, a feeling and a love, 
That had no heed of a remoter charm 
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
Have followed : for such loss, I would believe. 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on Naturej not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the living air. 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
* And mountains, and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear — both what they half create. 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

William Wordsworth (Tintern Abbey), 



6o GOLDEN POEMS 

THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING 

The year 's at the spring 
And day 's at the morn ; 
Morning 's at seven ; 
The hill-side 's dew-pearled ; 
The lark 's on the wing ; 
The snail 's on the thorn : 
God 's in His heaven — 
All 's right with the world ! 

Robert Browning {Pippa Passes). 



EARLY SPRING 

Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And domes the red-plow 'd hills 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds have their wills, 

The throstles too. 

Opens a door in heaven ; 

From skies of glass 
A Jacob's ladder falls 

On greening grass, 
And o'er the mountain -walls 

Young angels pass. 

Before them fleets the shower, 

And burst the buds, 
And shine the level lands, 

And flash the floods ; 
The stars are from their hands 

Flung thro ' the woods, — 

The woods with living airs 

How softly fann 'd. 
Light airs from where the deep, 

All down the sand, 
Is breathing in his sleep. 

Heard by the land. 

Oh, follow, leaping blood, 

The season's lure ! 
O heart, look down and upi, 

Serene, secure. 
Warm as the crocus cup. 

Like snowdrops pure ! 



NATURE'S VOICES 6i 

Past, Future glimpse and fade 

Thro' some slight spell, 
A gleam from yonder vale, 

Some far blue fell, 
And sympathies, how frail, 

In sound and smell ! 

Till at thy chuckled note, 

Thou twinkling bird. 
The fairy fancies range, 

And, lightly stirr'd, 
Ring httle bells of change 

From word to word. 

For now the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new. 
And thaws the cold, and fills 

The flower with dew ; 
The blackbirds have their wills. 

The poets too. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



APRIL IN ENGLAND 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there. 
And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware. 
That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England — now ! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! 

Hark, where my blossom 'd pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 

That 's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture ! 
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew. 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 
— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 

Robert Browning. 



62 GOLDEN POEMS 

NATURE IN SPRING 

Who can paint 
Like Nature ? Can imagination boast, 
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ? 
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill 
And lose them in each other, as appears 
In every bud that blows ? If fancy then, 
Unequal, fails beneath the pleasing task. 
Ah, what shall language do ? Ah, where find words 
Tinged with so many colors ; and whose power. 
To life approaching, may perfume my lays 
With that fine oil, those aromatic gales, 
That inexhaustive flow continual round ? 

Yet though successless, will the toil delight. 
Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts 
Have felt the raptures of refining love ; 
And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song ! 
Formed by the Graces, loveliness itself ! 
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and Bweet, 
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul ; 
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mixed. 
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart : 
O, come ! and while the rosy-footed May 
Steals blushing on, together let us tread 
The morning dews, and gather in their prime 
Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair, - 
And thy loved bosom that improves their sweets. 

James Thomson (Spring). 

SPRING IN CAROLINA 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
Which dwells with all things fair. 
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee, 

And there 's a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of Winter in the land. 
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 
Flushed by the season's dawn ; 



NATURE'S VOICES 63 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
That age to childhood bind, 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 
The brown of autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth, " 
The crocus breaking earth ; 
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, 
The violet inlts screen. 

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
Along the budding grass, 
And weeks go by, before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there 's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarc^l would start, 
If from a beech's heart 

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
"Behold me! I am May!" 

Henry Timrod. 



JUNE 

I GAZED upon the glorious sky. 

And the green mountains round. 
And thought that when I came to lie 

At rest within the ground, 
'T were pleasant that in flowery June, 
When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 

And groves a joyous sound. 
The sexton's hand, my grave to make. 
The rich, green mountain turf should break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 

A coffin borne through sleet, 
And icy clods above it rolled. 

While fierce the tempests beat — 



64 GOLDEN POEMS 

Away! I will not think of these ; 
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 

Earth green beneath the feet, 
And be the damp mould gently pressed 
Into my narrow place of rest. 

There, through the long, long summer hours 

The golden light should lie, 
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell ; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 

And what if cheerful shouts at noon 

Come, from the village sent, 
Or songs of maids beneath the moon 

With fairy laughter blent ? 
And what if, in the evening light. 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 

Of my low monument? 
I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound, 

I know that I no more should see 

The season's glorious show. 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow ; 
But if, around my place of sleep 
The friends I love should come to weep, 

They might not haste to go ; 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should bear 

The thought of what has been. 
And speak of one who cannot share 

The gladness of the scene ; 
Whose part in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills 

Is that his grave is green ; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



NATURE'S VOICES 65 

JUNE 

Earth gets its price for what earth gives us ; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in ; 
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us ; 

We bargain for the graves we He in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with the whole soul's tasking ; 

'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
'T is only God may be had for the asking ; 
No price is set on the lavish summer, 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune 

And over it softly her warm ear lays. 
Whether we look, or whether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it ghsten ; . 
Every clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for Hght, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green. 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chaHce, 
And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The Httle bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best ? 

Now is the high-tide of the year. 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer. 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 



66 GOLDEN POEMS 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear 
That dandeUons are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky. 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief 'goes, we know not how ; 
Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

'T is the natural way of living : 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake. 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed. 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth. 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

James Russell Lowell {The Vision of Sir Launjal). 

A SUMMER MORN 

But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield, and, hark ! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; 
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; 



NATURE'S VOICES 6-] 

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 

O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! 
O for the voice and fire of seraphim, 
To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew 
From Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty, 
And held high converse with the godlike few 
Who to the enraptured heart and ear and eye 
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. 

James Beattie {The Minstrel), 



SUMMER 

Around this lovely valley rise 

The purple hills of Paradise. 
' Oh, softly on the banks of haze 
Her rosy face the summer lays ; 

Becalmed along the azure sky 

The argosies of cloudland lie. 

Whose shores with many a shining rift 
Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 

Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 

I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 

Just where the field and forest meet, — 
Where grow the pine trees, tall and bland. 
The ancient oaks, austere and grand. 

And fringy roots and pebbles fret 

The ripples of the rivulet. 

I watch the mowers as they go 
Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row ; 
With even stroke their scythes they swing, 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 
Behind, the nimble youngsters run. 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
The cattle graze ; while warm and still 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 
And bright, when summer breezes break. 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and bumble-bee 
Come to the pleasant woods with me ; 
Quickly before me runs the quail, 
Her chickens skulk behind the rail ; 



68 GOLDEN POEMS 

High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells. 

The brooklet rings its tinkling bells. 

The swarming insects drone and hum, 
The partridge beats his throbbing drum. 

The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 

And chatters in his leafy house ; 
The oriole flashes by ; and look — 
Into the mirror of the brook, 

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat. 

Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly. 

The down of peace descends on me. 

Oh, this is peace ! I have no need 

Of friend to talk, or book to read ; 
A dear companion here abides, 
Close to my thrilling heart he hides ; 

The holy silence is his voice : 

I lie, and listen, and rejoice. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 



SEPTEMBER 

Sweet is the voice that calls 

From babbling waterfalls 
In meadows where the downy seeds are flying ; 

And soft the breezes blow. 

And eddying come and go 
In faded gardens where the rose is dying. 

Among the stubbled corn 

The blithe quail pipes at morn. 
The merry partridge drone in hidden places. 

And glittering insects gleam 

Above the reedy stream, 
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. 

At eve, cool shadows fall 

Across the garden wall, 

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning ; 

And pearly vapors lie 

Along the eastern sky, 
Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. 

Ah, soon on field and hill 
The wind shall whistle chill. 
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together. 



NATURE'S VOICES 69 

To fly from frost and snow, 
And seek for lands where blow 
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. 

The cricket chirps all day, 
" O fairest Summer, stay ! " 
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning : 

The wild fowl fly afar 

Above the foamy bar. 
And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. 

Now comes a fragrant breeze 

Through the dark cedar-trees, 
And round about my temples fondly lingers, 

In gentle playfulness, 

Like to the soft caress 
Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. 

Yet, though a sense of grief 

Comes with the falling leaf. 
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, 

In all my autumn dreams 

A future summer gleams. 
Passing the fairest glories of the present ! 

George Arnold. 



OCTOBER 

O LOVE, turn from the unchanging sea, and gaze 
Down these gray slopes upon the year grown old, 

A-dying mid the autumn-scented haze, 
That hangeth o'er the hollow in the wold, 
Where the wind-bitten ancient elms infold 

Gray church, long barn, orchard, and red-roofed stead, 

Wrought in dead days for men a long while dead. 

Come down, O love ; may not our hands still meet, 
Since still we live to-day, forgetting June, 

Forgetting May, deeming October sweet, — 
Oh, hearken, hearken ! through the afternoon 
The gray tower sings a strange old tinkling tune ! 

Sweet, sweet, and sad, the toiling year's last breath, 

Too satiate of life to strive with death. 

And we too, — will it not be soft and kind. 

That rest from life, from patience and from pain, 

That rest from bliss we know not when we find, 

That rest from love which ne'er the end can gain ? — 
Hark, how the tune swells, that erewhile did wane ! 



70 GOLDEN POEMS 

Look up, love ! — ah, cling close and never move ! 
How can I have enough of life and love ? 

William Morres {The Earthly Paradise). 

INDIAN SUMMER 

These are the days when birds come back, 
A very few, a bird or two, 
To take a backward look. 

These are the days when skies put on 
The old, old sophistries of June, — 
A blue-and-gold mistake. 

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee ! 
Almost thy plausibility 
Induces my belief, 

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear. 
And softly through the altered air 
Hurries a timid leaf. 

Oh, sacrament of summer days. 
Oh, last communion in the haze, 
Permit a child to join, 

Thy sacred emblems to partake, 

Thy consecrated bread to break, 

Taste thine immortal wine ! 



Emily Dickinson. 



AUTUMN 



The morns are meeker than they were, 

The nuts are getting brown ; 
The berry's cheek is plumper, 

The rose is out of town. 
The maple wears a gayer scarf. 

The field a scarlet gown. 
Lest I should be old-fashioned. 

I '11 put a trinket on. 

Emily Dickinson. 

WINTER 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled. 
Thy breath congealed upon thy hps, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 



NATURE'S VOICES 71 

But urged by storms along its slippery way, 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease. 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought. 
Not less dispersed by dayhght and its cares. 
I crown thee king of intimate delights. 
Fireside enjoyments, home -born happiness, " 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Qf undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 

William Cowper {The Task). 



MONTHS AND SEASONS 

So FORTH issew'd the seasons of the yeare : 
First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres, 
That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare. 
In which a thousand birds had built their bowres. 
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours ; 
And in his hand a javelin he did beare, 
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) 
A guilt engraven morion he did weare ; 
That as some did him love, so others did him feare. 

Then came the jolly Summer being dight 
In a thin silken cassock coloured greene. 
That was imlyned all to be more Ught ; 
And on his head a girlond well beseene 
He wore, from which as he had chauffed beene 
The sweat did drop ; and in his hand he bore 
A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene 
Had hunted late the libbard or the bore, 
And now would bathe his limbes with labor heated sore. 

Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad. 
As though he joyed in his plenteous store. 
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad 
That he had banished hunger, which to-fore 
Had by the belly oft him pinched sore : 
Upon his head a wreath that was enrold 
With eares of come of every sort, he bore, 



72 GOLDE N POEMS 

And in his hand a sickle he did holde, 
To reap the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold. 

Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frize, 
Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill ; 
Whil'st on his hoary beard his breath did freese, 
And the dull drops that from his purpled bill 
As from a limbeck did adown distill. 
In his right hand a tipped staffe he held, 
With which his feeble steps he stayed still ; 
For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld, 
That scarse his loosed hmbes he hable was to weld. 

These, marching softly, thus in order went. 
And after them the monthes all riding came : 
First, sturdy March, with brows full sternly bent, 
And armed strongly, rode upon a ram ; 
The same which over Hellespontus swam ; 
Yet in his hand a spade he also hent. 
And in a bag all sorts of seeds ysame. 
Which on the earth he strowed as he went, 
And filled her womb with fruitfull hope of nourishment. 

Next came fresh April, full of lustyhed. 
And wanton as a kid whose home new buds ; 
Upon a bull he rode, the same which led 
Europa fioting through th' Argolick fluds ; 
His homes were gilden all with golden studs. 
And garnished with garlonds goodly dight 
Of all the fairest flowers and freshest buds 
Which th' earth brings forth, and wet he seemed in sight 
With waves, through which he waded for his love's delight. 

Then came faire May, the fayrest mayd on ground, 
Deckt all with dainties of her season's pryde. 
And throwing flowres out of her lap around : 
Upon two brethrens shoulders she did ride, 
The twinnes of Leda; which on eyther side 
Supported her like to their soveraine queene : 
Lord ! how all creatures laught when her they spide, 
And leapt and daunc't as they had ravisht beene ! 
And Cupid selfe about her fluttred all in green. 

And after her came jolly June, array 'd 
All in greene leaves, as he a player were ; 
Yet in his time he wrought as well as played, 
That by his plough-yrons mote right well appeare ; 
Upon a crab he rode, that him did beare 
With crooked, crawling steps an uncouth pase ; 



NATURE'S VOICES 73 

And backward rode, as bargemen wont to fare 
Bending their force contrary to their face; 
Like that ungracious crew whiich faines demurest grace. 

Then came hot July, boyhng Hke to fire, 
And all his garments he had cast away ; 
Upon a lyon, raging yet with ire. 
He boldly rode, and made him to obey ; 
(It was the beast that whylome did forray 
The Nemaean forest, till th' Amphytrionide 
Him slew, and with his hide did him array ;) 
Behinde his backe a sithe, and by his side 
Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide. 

The sixth was August, being rich arrayd 
In garment all of gold downe to the ground • 
Yet rode he not, but led a lovely mayde 
Forth by the lilly hand, the which was crownd 
With eares of corne, and full her hand was found ; 
That was the righteous virgin which of old 
Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound ; 
But after Wrong was loved and Justice solde, 
She left the unrighteous world, and was to heaven extold. 

Next him September marched eeke on foote ; 
Yet was he heavy laden with the spoyle 
Of harvests riches, which he made his boot, 
And him enricht with bounty of the soyle : 
In his one hand, as fit for harvests toyle. 
He held a knife-hook ; and in the other hand 
A paire of waights, with which he did assoyle 
Both more and lesse, where it in doubt did stand, 
And equalle gave to each as Justice duly scann'd. 

Then came October full of merry glee ; 
For yet his noule was totty of the must. 
Which he was treading in the wine-fat's see, 
And of the joyous oyle, whose gentle gust 
Made him so froUick and so full of lust ; 
Upon a dreadful scorpion he did ride, 
The same which by Dianae's doom unjust 
Slew great Orion ; and eeke by his side 
He had his ploughing-share and coulter ready tyde. 

Next was November ; he full grosse and fat 

As fed with lard, and that right well might seem, 

For he had been a fatting hogs of late, 

That yet his browes with sweat did reeke and steam. 

And yet the season was full sharp and breem ; 

In planting eeke he took no small delight. 

Whereon he rode, not easie was to deeme ; 



74 GOLDEN POEMS 

For it a dreadful centaure was in sight, 
The seed of Saturne and faire Nais, Chiron hight. 

And after him came next the chill December ; 
Yet he, through merry feasting which he made, 
And great bonfires, did not the cold remember. 
His Saviour's birth his mind so much did glad. 
Upon a shaggy -bearded goat he rode. 
The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender years 
They say was nourisht by th' laean mayd ; 
And in his hand a broad deepe bowl he beares. 
Of which he freely drinks an health to all his peeres. 

Then came old January, wrapped well 
In many weeds to keep the cold away ; 
Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell 
And blowe his nayles to warm them if he may. 
For they were numb'd with holding all the day 
An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood. 
And from the trees did lop the needless spray ; 
Upon a huge great earth-pot steane he stood. 
From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane flood. 

And lastly came old February, sitting 
In an old wagon, for he could not ride, 
Drawne of two fishes, for the season fitting. 
Which through the flood before did softly slyde 
And swim away ; yet had he by his side 
His plough and harness fit to till the ground. 
And tooles to prune the trees, before the pride 
Of hasting Prime did make them burgein round. 
So past the twelve months forth, and their dew places found. 
Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 

LOVES OF THE PLANTS 

How snowdrops cold' and blue-eyed harebells blend 
Their tender tears, as o'er the streams they bend, 
The love-sick violet and the primrose pale 
Bow their sweet heads and whisper to the gale ; 
With secret sighs the virgin lily droops. 
And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups. 
How the young rose, in beauty's damask pride. 
Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride ; 
With honeyed lips enamored woodbines meet. 
Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet ! 
Stay thy soft murmuring waters, gentle rill ; 
Hush, whispering winds ; ye rustling leaves, be still ; 
Rest, silver butterflies, your quivering wings ; 
Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings ; 



NATURE'S VOICES 75 

Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl, 
Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uncurl ; 
Glitter, ye glowworms, on your mossy beds ; 
Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads ; 
Slide here, ye horned snails, with varnished shells ; 
Ye bee-nymphs, Hsten in your waxen cells ! 

Erasmus Darwin {The Botanic Garden). 



VIOLETS 

Welcome, maids of honor ! 

You doe bring 

In the spring. 
And wait upon her. 

She has virgins many 

Fresh and faire ; 

Yet you are 
More sweet than any. 

Y' are the maiden posies, 

And so grac't, 

To be plac't 
Tore damask roses. 

Yet though thus respected. 

By and by 

Ye doe lie, 
Poore.girles ! neglected. 

Robert Herrick. 



THE FIRST VIOLET 

Matted with yellow grass the fields lie bare. 

Wind-swept and bleak, and desolate with rain ; 
Through misty distances, the leafless trees 

Stretch gaunt, bare arms, and writhe as if in pain ; 
And, save the fitful sobbing of the wind. 

No sound, no life in all this lonesome waste. 
Oh hopeless day, that ever thou wert born ! 

Pass on ! pass on 1 and to thine ending haste. 

Pass on! — for never in the count of Time 

Came day to me more full of evil things ; 
Old memories of loss, of death, and pain. 

Start from their sleep and wound with freshest stings ; 
And here I stand alone, dear God, alone, 

A pitiless gray sky above my head ; 
Below . . . ah ! what is this ? Thou fairest flower. 

What dost thou here upon this death-cold bed ? 



^e GOLDEN POEMS 

"■Blue, bright as hope, or rifts in summer clouds, 

Fresh, pure, unsmirched by stain of rain or clay. 
Thou dream of radiant suns, of soft spring skies, 

What dost thou here, mocked by this dismal day ? 
But yet methinks a light born of thy grace 

Pierces the gloom, as morning pierces night; 
Sweet messenger, hast thou some sign for me ^ 

Some blest Evangel, if I read aright ? 

The waking pulse of Nature throbs in thee. 

And through the ice-bound mould, so grim and bare. 
Thy tender shoots have pierced, thy blooms unfold. 

Amidst this sullen waste the one thing fair ; 
So delicate, so frail, and yet so strong 

To bear the gracious message of the spring ; 
Herald of life which underlies all death, 

We dimly read the riddle that you bring. 

The violet droops within this bitter blast 

(All first great truths the martyr's crown must bear). 
Blow wind, fall snow, we know no shroud can still 

The life which stirs beneath this frozen air. 
Dear God! I read upon this petaled page 

Thy changeless record in the changeful hours ; 
Day follows night — Thou turnest blooms to dust, 

But from that tear-wet dust Thou bringest flowers. 

Fairer and purer for the vanished night — 

The long, lone wintry night when hope was o'er. 
And Love stood shivering by some open grave. 

And wrote upon its margin ''''Nevermore " ; 
Blind Love, who could not see beyond the mould 

And watch the new life quicken from decay. 
Who could not trust the Lord who rules the night 

To bring the blossoms of some fresh spring day. 

Marie B. Williams. 

THE VIOLET 

O FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet ! 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 

Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place. 
And that beloved hour. 



NATURE'S VOICES -j-j 

When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 
Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 

The lark sings o'er my head, 
Drowned in the sky — O, pass, ye visions, pass ! 

I would that I were dead ! — 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee ? 
O vanished joy ! O Love, that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

O violet! thy odor through my brain 

Hath searched and stung to grief 
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 

Thy velvet leaf. 

William Wetmore Story. 

ORCHID 

From what strange land beyond our ken 
Com'st thou, O creature winged in white ? 

Art fairy from some distant fen ? 

Art saint from far-off mountain height ? 

Or art thou ghost of wandering bird. 

Caught on a light stem's green-flushed tips ? 

Sure never sound hath mortal heard 
Like music of thy wind-blown lips ! 

Perchance thou 'rt butterfly, escaped 
From swinging crimson-flecked cocoon ; 

Thy pale wings like a crescent shaped 
To greet the palHd crescent moon. 

What angel from the clouds bent down 

To kiss thy white face floating by, 
And hold thee, who wert heaven 's own, 

And now art half of earth, half sky. 

Thou creature of another sphere, 

I scarcely breathe lest thou should 'st fade ! 

How can'st thou find companion here. 
Where thy white sheen makes all else fade ? 

Ah, fold thy wings, and loving eyes 

Shall watch thy trysting with the moon ; 

And then, thou darling of the skies. 
Fly far, with other joys of June. 

Lydia Avery Coonley Ward. 



78 GOLDEN POEMS 

THE DAISY 

Of all the floures in the mede, 
Than love I most these floures white and rede, 
Soch that men callen daisies in our town ; 
To hem I have so great affection, 
As I said erst, whan comen is the May, 
That in my bedde there daweth me no day 
That I nam up and walking in the mede ; 
To seene this flour agenst the Sunne sprede, 
Whan it up riseth early by the morow, 
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorow. 
So glad am I whan that I have the presence 
Of it, to done it all reverence ; 
And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe. 
And ever shall, till that mine herte die ; 
All swere I not, of this I will not lie. 

Geoffrey Chaucer {Legend of Good Women). 

DAFFODILS 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o 'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils. 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 

Fluttering, dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 
A poet could not but be gay 

In such a jocund company ; 
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie, 

In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 



NATURE'S VOICES 

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night, 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

'er wandering brooks and springs unseen 
Or columbines, in purple dressed. 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frost and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

1 would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

FOUR-LEAF CLOVER'' 

I KNOW a place where the sun is like gold. 
And the cherry blossoms burst with snow, 

And down underneath is the loveliest nook, 
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith. 

And one is for love, you know. 
And God put another in for luck, — 

If you search you will find where they grow. 

But you must have hope, and you must have faith, 
You must love and be strong — and so. 

If you work, if you wait, you will find the place 
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 

Ella Higginson. 

TO A WIND-FLOWER 

Teach me the secret of thy loveHness, 
That, being made wise, I may aspire to be 

As beautiful in thought, and so express 
Immortal truths to earth's mortality ; 

♦Copyright, 1898, by the Macmillan Company. 



79 



8o GOLDEN POEMS 

Though to my soul ability be less 
Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone. 

Teach me the secret of thy innocence, 

That in simplicity I may grow wise, 
Asking from Art no other recompense 

Than the approval of her own just eyes ; 
So may I rise to some fair eminence, 

Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies. 

Teach me these things, through whose high knowledge, I, — 
When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins. 

And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie 
In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes, — 

I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, 
For beauty born of beauty — that remains. 

Madison Cawein. 

TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring, ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O 'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost float and run. 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale, purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 



NATURE'S VOICES 8i 

As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow-clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the Hght of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered. 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal. 

Or triumphal chant. 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt, — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 



82 GOLDEN POEMS 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields of waves or mountains ? 

What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear ; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
The world should Hsten then, as I am hstening now. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE SKYLARK 

Bird of the wilderness. 
Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 



NATURE'S VOICES 83 

Wild is thy lay and loud 

Far in the downy cloud, 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where, on thy dewy wing. 

Where art thou journeying ? 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O 'er fell and fountain sheen, 

O 'er moor and mountain green, 
O 'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim. 

Over the rainbow's rim, 
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes. 

Low in the heather blooms. 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 

TO THE CUCKOO 

O BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice ; 
O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird. 

Or but a wandering voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 

Thy twofold shout I hear. 
From hill to hill it seems to pass. 

At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 

Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

I listened to ; that cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways. 

In bush and tree and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 

Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 

Still longed for, never seen. 



84 GOLDEN POEMS 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial fairy place : 

That is fit home for thee. 

William Wordsworth. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness. 

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 



NATURE'S VOICES 85 

Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast fading voilets cover' d up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk -rose, full of dewy wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still streaiji, 
Up the hillside ; and now 't is buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music : do I wake or sleep ? 

John Keats. 



86 GOLDE N POEMS 

THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 

Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself ; 

Stop here, or gently pass I 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 

listen ! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

' No Nightingale did ever chaunt 

More welcome notes to weary bands 

Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands : 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking the silence of the seas 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things. 
And battles long ago : 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Famihar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 

1 saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 

I listn'd motionless and still ; 
And, as I mounted up the hill. 
The music in my heart I bore. 
Long after it was heard no more. 

William Wordsworth. 



THE OCEAN 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 



NATURE'S VOICES 87 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ; — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, where are they ? 
Thy waters washed them power while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play ; 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime. 
The image of eternity, the throne- 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful spoi^ was on thy breast to be 
Borne like thy bubbles onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, 't was a pleasing fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 

TO SENECA LAKE 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake. 

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 

And round his breast the ripples break, 
As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 

The dipping paddle echoes far. 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore. 

As blows the north wind, heave their foam, 

And curl around the dashing oar. 
As late the boatman hies him home. 



88 GOLDEN POEMS 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 

Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
And see the mist of mantling blue 

Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A sheet of silver spreads below. 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake. 

Oh, I could ever sweep the oar, 
When early birds at morning wake, 

And evening tells us toil is o'er, 

James Gates Percival. 



THE SIERRAS 

Like fragments of an uncompleted world, 
From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spray. 
To where the peaks of Darien lie curled 
In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray ; 
The seamen nearing San Francisco Bay 
Forget the compass here ; with sturdy hand 
They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay 
The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand 
The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land. 

They stand white stairs of heaven, — stand a line 
Of lifting, endless, and eternal white ; 
They look upon the far and flashing brine. 
Upon the boundless plains, the broken height 
Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight 
Of time is underneath their untopped towers ; 
They seem to push aside the moon at night. 
To jostle and to loose the stars. The flowers 
Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers. 

They stand a line of lifted snowy isles. 
High held above a tossed and tumbled sea, — 
A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles ; 
White pyramids of Faith where man is free ; 
White monuments of Hope that yet shall be 
The mounts of matchless and immortal song. 
I look far down the hollow days ; I see 
The bearded prophets, simple soul'd and strong. 
That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding throng. 

Serene and satisfied ! supreme ! as lone ' 

As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd : 



NATURE'S VOICES 89 

They look as cold as kings upon a throne ; 
The mantling wings of night are crush' d and curl'd 
As feathers curl. The elements are hurl'd 
From off their bosoms, and are bidden go, 
Like evil spirits, to an under-world ; 
They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, 
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. 

Joaquin Miller {By the Sun-Down Seas). 

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE 
OF CHAMOUNI 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around thee and above. 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought. 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven \ 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O, struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 



90. GOLDEN POEMS 

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 
Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their^maddest plunge — 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! Sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, a while bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
"Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me. — Rise, oh, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 



NATURE'S VOICES 91 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

SUNRISE 

At last the golden oriental gate 

Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fair. 

And Phoebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate, 

Came dancing forth, shaking his dewy hair ; 

And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy air. 

Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 

MORNING 

Look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east ; 
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day , 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops. 

William Shakespeare {Romeo and Juliet). 

^ DAWN 

The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star 
A little while a little space made bright. 
Dark was the night, and like an iron bar 
Lay heavy on the land : till o'er the sea 
Slowly, within the East, there grew a Ught 
Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be 
The herald of a greater. The pale white 
Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height . 
Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew 
Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew 
Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East 
Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. 
It was as on the opening of a door 
By one who in his hand a lamp doth hold 
(Its flame yet hidden by the garment's fold), — 
The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. 

More bright the East became, the ocean turned 
Dark and more dark against the brightening sky — 
Sharper against the sky the long sea line. 
The hollows of the breakers on the shore 
Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine, 
Though white the outer branches of the tree. 
From rose to red the level heaven burned ; 



92 GOLDEN POEMS 

Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, 
A blade of gold flashed on the ocean's rim. 

Richard Watson Gilder {The New Day). 

HAIL, HOLY LIGHT 

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born ! 
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam, 
May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, 
And never but in unapproached light 
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee, 
Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! 
Or hear' St thou rather pure ethereal stream. 
Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the Sun, 
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep. 
Won from the void and formless Infinite ! 



For wonderful indeed are all His works. 

Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all 

Had in remembrance always with delight ! 

But what created mind can comprehend 

Their number, or the wisdom infinite 

That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep ? 

I saw when, at his word, the formless mass. 

This World's material mould, came to a heap : 

Confusion heard His voice, and wild Uproar 

Stood ruled, stood vast Infinitude confined ; 

Till, at his second bidding, darkness fled. 

Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. 

John Milton {Paradise Lost). 

NIGHT 

O MAJESTIC Night! 
Nature's great ancestor ! day's elder-born. 
And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
By mortals and immortals seen with awe ! 
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns. 
An azure zone thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's loom 
Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 
In ample folds of drapery divine. 
Thy flowing mantle form ; and heaven throughout 
Voluminously pour thy pompous train. 
Thy gloomy grandeurs (Nature's most august, 
Inspiring aspect !) claim a grateful verse ; 



NATURE'S VOICES 93 

And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, 
Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 

Edward Young {Night Thoughts). 

NIGHT 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feehng most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep. 
Ail heaven and earth are still ; from the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentred in a Ufe intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

And this is in the night — most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 't is black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hill shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Lord Byron (Childe Harold). 

NIGHT 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wo vest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear. 

Swift be thy flight ! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand, — 

Come, long sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 



94 GOLDEN POEMS 

And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 
I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother, Death, came, and cried, 

" Wouldst thou me ? " 
Thy sweet child, Sleep, the filmy-eyed,- 
Murmur'd like a noontide bee, 
" Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? " And I replied, 

" No, not thee ! " 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon, — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, ' 

Come soon, soon ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



STARS 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven. 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 't is to be forgiven 
That in our aspirations to be great 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 

DAY IS DYING 

Day is dying ! Float, O song, 

Down the westward river. 
Requiem chanting to the Day — 

Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
Through the river and the sky. 

Earth and heaven blending ; 

All the long-drawn earthy banks 

Up to cloud-land lifting : 
Slow between them drifts the swan, 

'Twixt two heavens drifting. 



NATURE'S VOICES 95 

Wings half open, like a flower 

Inly deeply flushing, 
Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying ! Fl©at, © swan, 

©own the ruby river ; 
Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver, 

Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot) 

{The Spanish Gypsy), 



THE EVENING WIND 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice : thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now. 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 

Nor I alone, — a thousand bosoms roimd 

Inhale thee in the fullness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, 

Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, — 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; 

Cmrl the still waters, bright with stars ; and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
And where the o'er shadowing branches sweep the grass. 

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone, 

That they who near the churchyard willows stray, 
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone. 

May think of gentle souls that pass'd away. 
Like thy pure brecfth, into the vast unknown, 

Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men. 

And gone into the boundless heaven again. 



96 GOLDEN POEMS 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go, — but the circle of eternal change. 

Which is the life of Nature, shall restore. 
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 

Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. 
Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, ' 

Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

William Cullen Byrant. 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

I 

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. 
Pestilence -stricken multitudes ! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until - 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air). , 
With living hues and odors plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear ! 

II 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Msenad, even from thg dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 



NATURE'S VOICES 97 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : oh, hear ! 

Ill 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves : oh, hear ! 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. 

As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 

Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 

V 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 

What if my leaves are falHng like its own ? 

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 1 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou. Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 



98 GOLDEN POEMS 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ! 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unwaken'd earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE THUNDER-STORM ^ 

A BODING silence reigns 
Dread through the dun expanse ; save the dull sound 
That from the mountain, previous to the storm, 
Rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood. 
And shakes the forest-leaf without a breath. 
Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes 
Descend ; the tempest-loving raven scarce 
Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze 
The cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens 
Cast a deploring eye, by man forsook. 
Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast. 
Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 

'T is listening fear and dumb amazement all, 
When to the startled eye the sudden glance 
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud ; 
And following slower, in explosion vast, 
The thunder raises his tremendous voice. 
At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, 
The tempest growls, but as it nearer comes, 
And rolls its awful burden on the wind. 
The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more 
The noise astounds ; till overhead a sheet 
Of livid flame discloses wide, then shuts. 
And opens wider ; shuts and opens still 
Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. 
Follows the loosen'd aggravated roar, 
Enlarging, deepening, mingHng, peal on peal 
Crush'd horrible, convulsing heaven and earth. 

Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail. 
Or prone-descending rain ; wide-rent, the clouds 
Pour a whole flood ; and yet, its flame unquenched. 
The unconquerable lightning struggles through. 
Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling balls. 
And fires the mountains with redoubled rage. 
Black from the stroke, above, the smouldering pine 



NATURE'S VOICES 99 

Stands a sad shatter'd trunk ; and stretch'd below, 

A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie : 

Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look 

They wore alive, and ruminating still 

In fancy's eye ; and there the frowning bull. 

And ox half raised. Struck on the castled cliff, 

The venerable tower and spiry fane 

Resign their aged pride. The gloomy woods 

Start at the flash, and from their deep recess, 

Wide flaming out, their trembling inmates shake. 

Amid Carnarvon's mountains rages loud 

The repercussive roar : with mighty crush. 

Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks 

Of Penmanmaur, heaped hideous to the sky, 

Tumble the smitten chffs ; and Snowdon's peak, 

Dissolving, instant yields his wintry load. 

Far seen, the heights of heathy Cheviot blaze, 

And Thule bellows through her utmost isles. 

James Thomson (Summer). 

A THUNDER-STORM IN THE ALPS 

The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder 1 Not from one lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 

THE SNOW-STORM 

The keener tempests rise : and fuming dun 

From all the livid east, or piercing north. 

Thick clouds ascend ; in whose capacious womb 

A vapory deluge lies, to snow congeal'd. 

Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; 

And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm. 

Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends, 

At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 

Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day. 

With a continual flow. The cherish 'd fields 

Put on their winter robe of purest white. 

'T is brightness all ; save where the new snow melts 

Along the mazy current. Low the woods 

LOfft 



loo GOLDEN POEMS 

Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun 
Faint froni the west emits its evening ray, 
Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill, 
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox 
Stands cover'd o'er with snow, and then demands 
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky. 
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 
Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights 
On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor. 
Eyes all the smiling family askance, 
And pecks, and starts, and v/onders where he is ; 
Till more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare. 
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs. 
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 
Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth, 
With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, 
Dig for the wither 'd herb through heaps of snow. 

James Thomson (Winter). 



BEFORE THE RAIN 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 

A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Was lowering its golden buckets down 

Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens, — 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers. 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea. 
To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars show'd 
The white of their leaves ; the amber grain 

Shrunk in the wind ; and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



NATURE'S VOICES loi 

AFTER THE RAIN 

The rain has ceased, and in my room 

The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 
And on the church's dizzy vane 

The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. 

From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 

Antiquely carven, gray and high, 
A dormer, facing westward, looks 

Upon the village like an eye : 

And now it glimmers in the sun, 

A square of gold, a disk, a speck : 
And in the belfry sits a dove 

With purple ripples on her neck. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

THE RAINBOW 

Thus all day long the full distended clouds 

Indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd earth 

Is deep enrich 'd with vegetable life; 

Till, in the western sky, the downward sun 

Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush 

Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. 

The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes 

The illumined mountain through the forest streams, 

Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, 

Far smoking o'er the interminable plain. 

In twinkHng myriads lights the dewy gems. 

Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around. 

Full swell the woods ; their every music wakes, 

Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks 

Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills. 

The hollow lows responsive from the vales, 

Whence blending all the sweeten' d zephyr springs. 

Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud, 

Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow 

Shoots up immense ; and every hue unfolds, 

In fair proportion running from the red 

To where the voilet fades into the sky. 

Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds 

Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism ; 

And to the sage-instructed eye unfold 

The various twine of light, by thee disclosed, 

From the white mingling maze. Not so the boy ; 

He wondering views the bright enchantment bend, 

Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs 

To catch the falling glory ; but amazed 



I02 GOLDEN POEMS 

Beholds the amusive arch before him fly, 

Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds, 

A soften'd shade, and saturated earth 

Awaits the morning beam, to give to light. 

Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes. 

The balmy treasures of the former day. 

James Thomson {Spring). 

THE RAINBOW 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The child is father of the man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
' Bound each to each by natural piety. 

William Wordsworth. 



PART III 



The hills are shadows, and they -flow 
From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands. 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it true ; 

For though my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 



PART III 
DREAMS AND FANCIES 



DREAMERS 

Ah, there be souls none understand, 
Like clouds, they cannot touch the land, 
Drive as they may by field or town. 
Then we look wise at this, and frown, 
And we cry, " Fool ! " and cry, " Take hold 
Of earth, and fashion gods of gold ! " 

Unanchor'd ships, that blow and blow, 
Sail to and fro, and then go down 
In unknown seas that none shall know. 
Without one ripple of renown ; 
Poor drifting dreamers, sailing by, 
That seem to only live to die. 

Call these not fools ; the test of worth 
Is not the hold you have of earth ; 
Lo, there be gentlest souls, sea blown. 
That know not any harbor known ; 
And it may be the reason is 
They touch on fairer shores than this. 

Joaquin Miller {Up the Nile). 

FANCIES 

Fancies are but streams 

Of vain pleasure ; 
They who by their dreams 
True joys measure. 
Feasting, starve, laughing, weep, 
Playing, smart ; whilst in sleep 
Fools, with shadows smiling. 
Wake and find 
Hopes like wind. 
Idle hopes, beguiling. 
Thoughts fly away ; Time hath passed them ; 
Wake now. awake ! see and taste them ! 

John Ford. 

105 



> 



io6 GOLDEN POEMS 

DRIFTING 

My soul to-day 

Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat. 
Swims round the purple peaks remote. 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

Where high rocks throw. 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague and dim 
The mountains swim ; 
. While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
With outstretch'd hands 
The gray smoke stands, 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ; — 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild. 
Is Heaven's own child, 
With earth and ocean reconciled ; — 
The airs I feel 
Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 



DREAMS ANDFANCIES 107 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail ; 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies, — 

O'erveil'd with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 
The cliffs amid, 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid ; 
Or down the walls. 
With tipsy calls. 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild. 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where Traffic blows. 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship, 

To rise and dip. 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 

In lofty lines. 
Mid palms and pines, 
And olives, aloes, elms, and vines. 



io8 GOLDEN POEMS 

Sorrento swings 
On sunset wings, 
Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



BASKING 

Wheel me into the sunshine, 

Wheel me into the shadow ; 

There must be leaves on the woodbine. 

Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow? 

My soul lies out like a basking hound -— 

A hound that dreams and dozes ; 

Along my life my length I lay, 

I fill to-morrow and yesterday, 

I am warm with the suns that have long since set, 

I am warm with the summers that are not yet, 

And like one who dreams and dozes 

Softly afloat on a sunny sea. 

Two worlds are whispering over me, 

And there blows a wind of roses 

From the backward shore to the shore before. 

From the shore before to the backward shore. 

And like two clouds that meet and pour 

Each through each, till core in core 

A single self reposes, 

The nevermore with the evermore 

Above me mingles and closes ; 

As my soul lies out like the basking hound, 

And wherever it lies seems happy ground ; 

And when awaken'd by some sweet sound, 

A dreamy eye uncloses, 

I see a blooming world around. 

And I lie amid primroses, — 

Years of sweet primroses. 

Springs of fresh primroses, 

Springs to be, and springs for me 

Of distant dim primroses. 

Sydney Dobell {Home, Wounded). 

KUBLA KHAN 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

In stately pleasure-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 
Down to a sunless sea. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 109 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 

With walls and towers were girdled round : 

And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills 

Where blossom' d many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But ohl that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. 

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced : 

Amid whose swift half -intermitted burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 

It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 

Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man. 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw : 
It was an Abyssinian maid, 
And on her dulcimer she play'd, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 
Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 't would win me 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware 1 Beware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 



no GOLDEN POEMS 

Weave a circle round him thrice, 

And close your eyes with holy dread, 

For he on honey-dew hath fed. 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



ECHO AND SILENCE 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 

And Autumn in her lap the store to strew. 

As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 

Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high, 

Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy ! 

And, lo, she 's gone 1 — In robe of dark -green hue 

'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew. 

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky ; 

In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 

Not so her sister. Hark ! for onward still. 

With far-heard step she takes her listening way. 

Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. 

Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play 

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! 

Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges. 



INDIRECTION 

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion 

is fairer ; 
Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; 
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is 

sweeter ; 
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-master' d the 

metre. 

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing ; 
Never a river that flows, but a majesty sceptres the flowing ; 
Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did 

enfold him ; 
Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him. 

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden ; 
Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden ; 
Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling ; 
Crowning the glory reveal'd is the glory that crowns the revealing. 

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symbol'd is 

greater ; 
Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator ; 



DREAMS AND FANCIES iii 

Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the 

giving ; 
Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of re- 

ceiving. 

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing ; 
The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the 

wooing ; 
And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights 

where those shine, 
Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life 

is divine. 

Richard Realf. 

" WE ARE THE MUSIC MAKERS'' 

We are the music makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 
Wandering by lone sea-breakers. 

And sitting by desolate streams ; — 
World-losers and world-forsakers, 

On whom the pale moon gleams : 
Yet we are the movers and shakers 

Of the world for ever, it seems. 

With wonderful deathless ditties 
We build up the world's great cities, 

And out of a fabulous story 

We fashion an empire's glory : 
One man with a dream, at pleasure, 

Shall go forth and conquer a crowfi ; 
And three with a new song's measure 

Can trample a kingdom down. 

We, in the ages lying 

In the buried past of the earth, 
Built Nineveh with our sighing. 

And Babel itself in our mirth ; 
And o'erthrew them with prophesying 

To the old of the new world's worth ; 
For each age is a dream that is dying, 

Or one that is coming to birth. 

Arthur O'Shaughnessy. 

GIVE ME BACK MY YOUTH AGAIN 

Then give me back that time of pleasures. 
While yet in joyous growth I sang, — 
When, hke a fount, the crowding measures 
Uninterrupted gush'd and sprang I 



112 GOLDEN POEMS 

Then bright mist veil'd the world before me, 

In opening buds a marvel woke, 

As I the thousand blossoms broke 

Which every valley richly bore me ! 

I nothing had, and yet enough for youth — 

Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. 

Give unrestrain'd the old emotion, 

The bhss that touch 'd the verge of pain, 

The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion, — 

O, give me back my youth again ! 

(From the German of Goethe.) 



IDLE SINGER OF AN EMPTY DAY 

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, 
I cannot ease the burden of your fears, 
Or make quick-coming death a little thing. 
Or bring again the pleasure of past years. 
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, 
Or hope again for aught that I can say. 
The idle singer of an empty day. 

But rather, when aweary of your mirth 
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh. 
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, 
Grudge every minute as it passes by. 
Made the more mindful that the sweet days die, — ■ 
Remember me a little then, I pray. 
The idle singer of an empty day. 

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care 
That weighs us down who live and earn our bread. 
These idle verses have no power to bear ; 
So let me sing of names remembered. 
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, 
Or long time take their memory quite away 
From us poor singers of an empty day. 

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time. 
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight ? 
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme 
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate. 
Telling a tale not too importunate 
To those who in the sleepy region stay, 
Lull'd by the singer of an empty day. 

Folk say, a wizard to a northern*king 
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show 
That through one window men beheld the spring, 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 113 

And through another saw the summer glow, 
And through a third the fruited vines a-row, 
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, 
Piped the drear wind of that December day. 

So with this Earthly Paradise it is. 
If ye will read aright, and pardon me. 
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss 
Midmost the beating of the steely sea, 
Where toss'd about all hearts of men must be ; 
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay, 
Not the poor singer of an empty day. 

William Morris {The Earthly Paradise). 



IN OUR BOAT 

Stars trembling o'er us and sunset before us, 

Mountains in shadow and forests asleep ; 
Down the dim river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there 's peace on the deep. 

Come not, pale sorrow, flee till to-morrow ; 

Rest softly falling o'er eyehds that weep ; 
While down the river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there's peace on the deep. 

As the waves cover the depths we glide over, 

So let the past in forgetfulness sleep. 
While down the river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there 's peace on the deep. 

Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us ; 

All whom we love in thy tenderness keep ! 
While down the river we float on forever. 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there 's peace on the deep. 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



CONVALESCENCE 

Thank Heaven ! the crisis. 

The danger is past. 
And the lingering illness 

Is over at last, — 
And the fever called ''Living" 

Is conquered at last. 

Sadly, I know, 

I am shorn of my strength. 
And no muscle I move 



114 GOLDEN POEMS 

As I lie at full length. — 
But no matter ! — I feel 
I am better at length. 

And I rest so composedly 

Now, in my bed, 
That any beholder 

Might fancy me dead, — ■ 
Might start at beholding me. 

Thinking me dead. 

My tantalized spirit 

Here blandly reposes, 
Forgetting, or never 

Regretting, its roses, 
Its old agitations 

Of myrtles and roses : 

For now, while so quietly 

Lying, it fancies 
A holier odor 

About it, of pansies, — 
A rosemary odor, 

Commingled with pansies. 
With rue and the beautiful 

Puritan pansies. 

Edgar Allan Poe {For Annie). 

THE ORCHARD-LANDS OF LONG AGO* 

The orchard-lands of Long Ago ! 
O drowsy winds, awake and blow 
The snowy blossoms back to me. 
And all the buds that used to be ! 
Blow back along the grassy ways 
Of truant feet, and lift the haze 
Of happy summer from the trees 
That trail their tresses in the seas 
Of grain that float and overflow 
The orchard-lands of Long Ago 1 

Blow back the melody that slips 

In lazy laughter from the lips 

That marvel much if any kiss 

Is sweeter than the apple's is. 

Blow back the twitter of the birds — 

The Hsp, the titter, and the words > 

Of merriment that found the shine 

Of summer-time a glorious wine 

* By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co., from "Rhymes of 
Childhood," copyright, 1900. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 115 

That drenched the leaves that loved it so 
In orchard-lands of Long Ago ! 

O memory ! alight and sing 
Where rosy-bellied pippins cling, 
And golden russets glint and gleam 
As in the old Arabian dream 
The fruits of that enchanted tree 
The glad Aladdin robbed for me ! • 
And, drowsy winds, awake and fan 
My blood as when it overran 
A heart ripe as the apples grow 
In orchard-lands of Long Ago. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



ALONE BY THE HEARTH 

Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 

Sit I alone ; 
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 

Days long agone. 
Saddening it is when the night has descended, 

Thus to sit here, 
Pensively musing on episodes ended 

Many a year. 

Still in my visions a golden-hair 'd glory 

Flits to and fro ; 
She whom I loved — but 't is just the old story : 

Dead, long ago. 

'T is but a wraith of love ; yet I linger 

(Thus passion errs), 
Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger — 

Once it was hers. 

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, 

Here, in this room. 
Save I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted, 

Sit in the gloom. 

Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes. 

Dreary and cold ; 
Over the floor the red fire-light flashes, 

Just as of old. 

Just as of old — but the embers are scatter 'd, 

Whose ruddy blaze 
Flash'd o'er the floor where the fairy feet patter'd 

In other days ! 



ii6 GOLDEN POEMS 

Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing, 

Melted away ; 
Often these walls have re-echo'd her singing, 

Now hush'd for aye 1 

Why should love bring nought but sorrow, I wonder ? 

Everything dies ! 
Time and death, sooner or later, must sunder 

Holiest ties. 

Years have roll'd by ; I am wiser and older — 

Wiser, but yet 
Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder. 

Can I forget. 

So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber. 

Sit I alone ; 
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 

Days long agone 1 

George Arnold. 



THE WISTFUL DA YS 

What is there wanting in the Spring? 

The air is soft as yesteryear ; 

The happy -nested green is here, 
And half the world is on the wing. 

The morning beckons, and like balm 

Are westward waters blue and calm. 
Yet something's wanting in the Spring. 

What is wanting in the Spring ? 

O April, lover to us all. 

What is so poignant in thy thrall 
When children's merry voices ring ? 

What haunts us in the cooing dove 

More subtle than the speech of Love, 
What nameless lack or loss of Spring ? 

Let Youth go dally with the Springs 
Call her the dear, the fair, the young ; 
And all her graces ever sung 

Let him, once more rehearsing, sing. 
They know, who keep a broken tryst, 
Till something from the Spring be miss'd 

We have not truly known the Spring. 

Robert Underwood Johnson. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 117 

AT BEST 

The faithful helm commands the keel, 

From port to port fair breezes blow ; 
But the ship must sail the convex sea, 

Nor may she straighter go. 

So, man to man ; in fair accord, 

On thought and will the winds may wait ; 

But the world will bend the passing word, 
Though its shortest course be straight. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be ; 
The ship that holds the straigktest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 

John Boyle O'Reilly 

SHELLEY ' 

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain. 

And did he stop and speak to you, 
And did you speak to him again ? 

How strange it seems, and new ! 

But you were hving before that. 

And also you are living after ; 
And the memory I started at — 

My starting moves your laughter ! 

I cross'd a moor, with a name of its own 
And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 

Yet a hand's-breath of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about : 

For there I pick'd up on the heather 

And there I put inside my breast 
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 

Well, I forget the rest. 

Robert Browning. 

BUGLE SONG 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O, hark ! O, hear 1 how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 



ii8 GOLDEN POEMS 

O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying, 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill, or field, or river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {The Princess). 

EGYPTIAN SERENADE 

Sing again the song you sung 
When we were together young. 
When there were but you and I 
Underneath the summer sky. 

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, 
Though I know that nevermore 
Will it seem the song you sung 
When we were together young. 

George William Curtis. 

CHIMNEY SWALLOWS 

I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea : 

And in their chimney nest. 
At night the swallows told home-lore to me, 

As to a friendly guest. 

A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad. 

From many glossy throats. 
Was all the voice ; and yet its accents had 

A poem's golden notes. 

Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, 

And sounds of festal cheer. 
And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er, 

Were breathed into mine ear ; 

And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung. 

The heart's melodious bloom ; 
And histories, whose perfumes long have clung 

About each hallowed room. 

I heard the dream of lovers, as they found 

At last their hour of bliss. 
And fear and pain and long suspense were drown'd 

In one heart-healing kiss. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 119 

I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew 

To sons and daughters fair ; 
And childhood's angels, singing as they flew, 

And sobs of secret prayer. 

I heard the voyagers who seem'd to sail 

Into the sapphire sky, 
And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, 

As the swift ships went by ; 

And sighs suppress'd and converse soft and low 

About the sufferer's bed, 
And what is utter'd when the stricken know 

That the dear one is dead ; 

And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light, 

Muse with transfigured face ; 
And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night. 

The pillow's empty place ; 

And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path 

In youth had gone apart, 
But to each other brought life's aftermath, 

With uncorroded heart. 

The music of the seasons touch'd the strain. 

Bird-joy and laugh of flowers, 
The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain. 

Snow storm and sunny showers ; 

And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns 

And gropes in regions dim, 
Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns 

Its perfect life in Him. 

So, thinking of the Master and his tears. 

And how the birds are kept, 
I sank in arms that folded me from fears, 

And like an infant, slept. 

Horatio Nelson Powers. 



THE WANDERER * 

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, 

I found a shell ; 
And to my listening ear this lonely thing 
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing. 

Ever a tale of ocean seem'd to tell. 

How came this shell upon the mountain height ? 
Ah, who can say 

* From "A Little Book of Western Verse "; copyright, 1899, by Eugene Field ; 
published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



120 GOLDENPOEMS 

Whether there dropp'd by some too careless hand, 
Whether there cast when oceans swept the land, 
Ere the Eternal had ordain'd the day ? 

Strange, was it not ? Far from its native deep, 

One song it sang : 
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide. 
Sang of the storied sea, profound and wide, — 

Ever with echoes of old ocean rang. 

And as the shell upon the mountain height 

Sang of the sea. 
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away. 
So do I ever, wandering where I may. 

Sing, O my home ! sing, O my home, of thee ! 

Eugene Field. 

SONG 

We sail toward evening's lonely star. 

That trembles in the tender' blue ; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar 

Burnt with dull carmine through and through, 
Slow smouldering in the summer sky, 

Lies low along the fading west ; 
How sweet to watch its splendors die, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caress'd ! 

The soft breeze freshens ; leaps the spray 

To kiss our cheeks with sudden cheer ; 
Upon the dark edge of the bay 

Light-houses kindle far and near. 
And through the warm deeps of the sky 

Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest 
In deep refreshment, thou and I, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caress'd. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven, 

Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea; 
Thy face, pale in the shadoAvy even. 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
Oh, realize the moment's charm. 

Thou dearest ! We are at life's best, 
Folded in God's encircHng arm. 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caress'd ! 

Celia Thaxter. 

THE GOLDEN SILENCE 

What though I sing no other song ? 

What though I speak no other word ? — 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 121 

Is silence shame ? Is patience wrong ? — 
At least, one song of mine was heard : 

One echo from the mountain air, 

One ocean murmur, glad and free — 
One sign that nothing grand or fair 

In all this world was lost to me. 

I will not wake the sleeping lyre ; 

I will not strain the chords of thought ; 
The sweetest fruit of all desire 

Comes its own way, and comes unsought. 

Though all the bards of earth were dead. 

And all their music pass'd away. 
What Nature wishes should be said 

She '11 find the rightful voice to say ! 

Her heart is in the shimmering leaf, 

The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, 
And all we know of bliss or grief 

She speaks in forms that cannot die. 

The mountain-peaks that shine afar, 

The silent star, the pathless sea, 
Are living signs of all we are. 

And types of all we hope to be. 

William Winter. 

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 

The blessed damozel lean'd out 

From the gold bar of Heaven ; - 
Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters still'd at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 

No wrought flowers did adorn. 
But a white rose of Mary's gift. 

For service meetly worn ; 
Her hair that lay along her back 

Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers ; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 



122 GOLDEN POEMS 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place, 
Surely she lean'd o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. • 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge ; 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Around her, lovers, newly met 

In joy no sorrow claims, 
Spoke evermore among themselves 

Their rapturous new names ; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her Uke thin flames. 

And still she bow'd herself and stoop'd 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she lean'd on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fix'd place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now ; the curl'd moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf ; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 

(Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents there. 
Fain to be hearken'd ? When those bells 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 123 

Possess'd the mid-day air, . 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 
Down all the echoing stair ?) 

** I wish that he were come to me, 

For he will come, " she said. 
" Have I not pray'd in Heaven ? — on earth, 

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd ? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 

And shall I feel afraid ? 

" When round his head the aureole clings. 

And he is clothed in white, 
I '11 take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light ; 
We will step down as to a stream. 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

" We two will stand beside that shrine. 

Occult, withheld, untrod. 
Whose lamps are stirr'd continually 

With prayer sent up to God ; 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 

" We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith his Name audibly. 

"And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so. 
The songs I sing here ; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, 
And find some knowledge at each pause. 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st ! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity % 

The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee ?) 

" We two," she said, '' will seek the groves 

Where the lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret, and Rosalys. 



124 GOLDEN POEMS 

" Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread, 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

" He shall fear, haply, and be dumb ; 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abash' d or weak : 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 

" Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. 

To Him round whom all souls 
Kjieel, the clear-ranged unnumber'd heads 

Bow'd with their aureoles : 
And angels meeting us shall sing 

To their citherns and citoles. 

" There will I ask of Christ the Lord 

Thus much for him and me: — 
Only to hve as once on earth 

With Love, only to be, 
As then awhile, for ever now 

Together, I and he. " 

She gazed and listen' d and then said, 

Less sad of speech than mild, — 
"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 

The Ught thrill'd towards her, fiU'd 
With angels in strong level flight. 

Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 

Was vague in distant spheres : 
And then she cast her arms along 

The golden barriers. 
And laid her face between her hands. 

And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 



IN 'THE MIST 

Sitting all day in a silver mist. 
In silver silence all the day. 
Save forthe low, soft hiss of spray 

And the Hsp of sands by waters kiss'd, 
As the tide draws up the bay. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 125 

Little I hear and nothing I see. 

Wrapped in that veil by fairies spun ; 

The sohd earth is vanish'd for me, 
And the shining hours speed noiselessly, 

A woof of shadow and sun, 

Suddenly out of the shifting veil 

A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit, 

Flits like a dream — or seems to flit — 
With a golden prow and a gossamer sail, 

And the waves make room for it. 

A fair, swift bark from sorne radiant realm, — 

Its diamond cordage cuts the sky 

In glittering lines ; all silently 
A seeming spirit holds the helm. 

And steers. Will he pass me by ? 

Ah, not for me is the vessel here ; 
Noiseless and swift as a sea-bird's flight 
She swerves and vanishes from the sight ; 

No flap of sail, no parting cheer, — 
She has passed into the light. 

Sitting some day in a deeper mist. 
Silent, alone, some other day. 
An unknown bark, from an unknown bay, 

By unknown waters lapp'd and kiss'd. 
Shall near me through the spray. 

No flap of sail, no scraping of keel ; 
Shadowy, dim, with a banner dark, 
It will hover, will pause, and I shall feel 

A hand which grasps me, and shivering steal 
To the cold strand, and embark, — 

Embark for that far, mysterious realm 

Where the fathomless, trackless waters flow. 
Shall I feel a Presence dim, and know 

Thy dear hand, Lord, upon the helm. 
Nor be afraid to go ? 

And through black waves and stormy blast 
And out of the fog-wreaths, dense and dun, 
Guided by thee, shall the vessel run, 

Gain the fair haven, night being past. 
And anchor in the sun ? 

Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge). 



126 GOLDEN POEMS 

THE MENDICANTS 

We are as mendicants who wait 
Along the roadside in the sun. 

Tatters of yesterday and shreds 
Of morrow clothe us every one. 

And some are dotards who believe 
And glory in the days of old ; 

While some are dreamers, harping still 
Upon an unknown age of gold. 

Hopeless or witless ! Not one heeds, 
As lavish Time comes down the way 

And tosses in the suppliant hat 

One great new-minted gold To-day. 

Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks, 
His beggar's wisdom only sees 

Housing and bread and beer enough ; 
He knows no other things than these. 

O foolish ones, put by your care ! 

Where wants are many, joys are few ; 
And at the wilding springs of peace, 

God keeps an open house for you. 

But that some Fortunatus' gift 
Is lying there within his hand. 

Mare costly than a pot of pearls, 
His dullness does not understand. 

And so his creature heart is filled ; 

His shrunken self goes starved away. 
Let him wear brand-new garments still, 

Who has a threadbare soul, I say. 

But there be others, happier few. 
The vagabondish sons of God, 

Who know the by-ways and the flowers. 
And care not how the world may plod. . 

They idle down the traffic lands. 

And loiter through the woods with Spring ; 

To them the glory of the earth 
Is but to hear a bluebird sing. 

They too receive each one his Day ; 

But their wise heart knows many things 
Beyond the sating of desire. 

Above the dignity of kings. 

One I remember kept his coin, 
And laughing flipp'd it in the air ; 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 127 

But when two strolling pipe-players 
Came by, he toss'd it to the pair. 

Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart 
Danced to their wild outlandish bars ; 

Then supperless he laid him down 

That night, and slept beneath the stars. 

Bliss Carman. 

UPON THE BEACH 

My life is like a stroll upon the. beach, 

As near the ocean's edge as I can go ; 
My tardy steps the waves sometimes o'erreach. 

Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 

My sole employment 't is, and scrupulous care, 
To set my gains beyond the reach of tides — 

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, 
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 

I have but few companions on the shore, — 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea ; 

Yet oft I think the ocean they 've sailed o'er 
Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view ; 

Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 

And I converse with many a shipwreck 'd crew. 

Henry David Thoreau. 

A STRIP OF BLUE 

I DO not own an inch of land. 

But all I see is mine — 
The orchard and the mowing-fields, 

The lawns and gardens fine. 
The winds my tax-collectors are, 

They bring me tithes divine — 
Wild scents and subtile essences, 

A tribute rare and free ; 
And, more magnificent than all, 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity, 

A little strip of sea. 

Richer am I than he who owns 

Great fleets and argosies ; 
I have a share in every ship 

Won by the inland breeze 



128 GOLDEN POEMS 

To loiter on yon airy road 

Above the apple trees. 
I freight them with my untold dreams, 

Each bears my own pick'd crew ; 
And nobler cargoes wait for them 

Than ever India knew — 
My ships that sail into the East 

Across that outlet blue. 

Sometimes they seem like living shapes — 

The people of the sky — 
Guests in white raiment coming down 

From Heaven, which is close by • 
I call them by familiar names, 

As one by one draws nigh, 
So white, so light, so spirit-like, 

From violet mists they bloom ! 
The aching wastes of the unknown 

Are half reclaim'd from gloom. 
Since on life's hospitable sea 

All souls find sailing room. 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 

Float in upon the mist ; 
The waves are broken precious stones — 

Sapphire and amethyst, 
Wash'd from celestial basement walls 

By suns unsetting kiss'd. 
Out through the utmost gates of space. 

Past where the gay stars drift, 
To the widening Infinite, my soul 

Glides on a vessel swift ; 
Yet loses not her anchorage 

In yonder azure rift. 

Here sit I, as a little child ; 

The threshold of God's door 
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; 

Now the vast temple floor, 
The blinding glory of the dome 

I bow my head before ; 
The universe, O God, is home. 

In height or depth to me ; 
Yet here upon thy footstool green 

Content am I to be ; 
Glad, when is open'd to my need 

Some sea-like ghmpse of Thee. 

Lucy Larcom. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 129 

THE ROSE OF STARS ^ 

When Love, our great Immortal, 

Put on mortality. 
And down from Eden's portal 

Brought this sweet life to be, 
At the sublime archangel 

He laugh'd with veiled eyes. 
For he bore within his bosom 

The seed of Paradise. 

He hid it in his bosom. 

And there such warmth it found, 
It brake in bud and blossom. 

And the rose fell on the ground ; 
As the green light on the prairie, 

As the red light on the sea. 
Through fragrant belts of summer 

Came this sweet life to be. 

And the grave archangel seeing 

Spread his mighty wings for flight, 
But the glow hung round him fleeing 

Like the rose of an Arctic night ; 
And sadly moving heavenward 

By Venus and by Mars, 
He heard the joyful planets 

Hail Earth, the Rose of Stars. 

George Edward Woodberry. 

PRE-EXISTENCE 

While sauntering through the crowded street, 
Some half-remember'd face I meet, 

Albeit upon no mortal shore 

That face, methinks, has smiled before. 

Lost in a gay and festal throng, 
I tremble at some tender song — 

Set to an air whose golden bars 
I must have heard in other stars. 

In sacred aisles I pause to share 
The blessing of a priestly prayer, — 

When the whole scene which greets mine eyes 
In some strange mode I recognize 

As one whose every mystic part 
I feel prefigured in my heart. 

* From " Wild Eden," copyright, 1899, by The Macmillan Co. 



I30 GOLDEN POEMS 

At sunset, as I calmly stand, 
A stranger on an alien strand, 

Familiar as my childhood's home 
Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. 

One sails toward me o'er the bay. 
And what he comes to do and say 

I can foretell. A prescient lore 
Springs from some life outlived of yore. 

O swift, instinctive, startling gleams 
Of deep soul-knowledge ! not as dreams 

For aye ye vaguely dawn and die, 
But oft with lightning certainty 

Pierce through the dark, oblivious brain. 
To make old thoughts and memories plain — 

Thoughts which perchance must travel back 
Across the wild, bewildering track 

Of countless aeons ; memories far. 
High-reaching as yon pallid star. 

Unknown, scarce seen, whose flickering grace 
Faints on the outmost rings of space ! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 

THE PASSIONATE READER TO HIS POET 

Doth it not thrill thee. Poet, 

Dead and dust though thou art, 
To feel how I press thy singing 

Close to my heart ? 

Take it at night to my pillow. 

Kiss it before I sleep. 
And again when the delicate morning 

Beginneth to peep ? 

See how I bathe thy pages 

Here in the light of the sun ; 
Through thy leaves, as a wind among roses. 

The breezes shall run. 

Feel how I take thy poem 

And bury within it my face. 
As I press'd it last night in the heart of a flower. 

Or deep in a dearer place. 

Think, as I love thee, Poet, 

A thousand love beside, 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 131 

Dear women love to press thee too 
Against a sweeter side. 

Art thou not happy, Poet ? 

I sometimes dream that I 
For such a fragrant fame as thine 

Would gladly sing and die. 

Say, wilt thou change thy glory 

For this same youth of mine ? 
And I will give my days i' the sun 

For that great song of thine. 

Richard Le Gallienne. 

AN OLD MAN'S IDYL 

By the waters of Life we sat together. 

Hand in hand, in the golden days 
Of the beautiful early summer weather. 

When skies were purple and breath was praise, 
When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds, 

And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran 
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards, 

And trees with voices ^Eolian. 

By the rivers of Life we walk'd together, 

I and my darling, unafraid ; 
And lighter than any linnet's feather 

The burdens of being on usweigh'd ; 
And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw 

Mantles of joy outlasting time. 
And up from the rosy morrows grew 

A sound that seem'd like a marriage chime. 

In the gardens of Life we stray'd together. 

And the luscious apples were ripe and red, 
And the languid lilac and honey'd heather 

Swoon'd with the fragrance which they shed ; 
And under the trees the angel walk'd. 

And up in the air a sense of wings 
Awed us tenderly while we talk'd 

Softly in sacred communings. 

In the meadows of Life we stray'd together, 

Watching the waving harvests grow. 
And under the benison of the Father 

Our hearts, like the lambs, skipp'd to and fro ; 
And the cowslips, hearing our low replies, 

Broider'd fairer the emerald banks, 
And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes, 

And the timid violet gHsten'd thanks. 



132 GOLDEN POEMS 

Who was with us, and what was round us, 

Neither myself nor my darling guess'd ; 
Only we knew that something crown'd us 

Out from the heavens with crowns of rest ; 
Only we knew that something bright 

Linger'd lovingly where we stood, 
Clothed with the incandescent light 

Of something higher than humanhood. 

Oh, the riches love doth inherit ! 

Oh, the alchemy which doth change 
Dross of body and dregs of spirit 

Into sanctities rare and strange ! 
My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, 

My darling's beautiful hair is gray ; 
But our elixir and precious gold 

Laugh at the footsteps of decay. 

Harms of the world have come unto us. 

Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain ; 
But we have a secret which doth show us 

Wonderful rainbows in the rain. 
And we hear the tread of the years move by. 

And the sun is setting behind the hills ; 
But my darling does not fear to die, 

And I am happy in what God wills. 

So we sit by our household fires together. 

Dreaming the dreams of long ago ; 
Then it was balmy, sunny weather, 

And now the valleys are laid in snow ; 
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, 

The wind blows cold, — 't is growing late ; 
Well, well ! we have garner' d all our sheaves, 

I and my darling, and we wait. 

Richard Realf. 

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH * 

There are gains for all our losses. 

There are balms for all our pain : 
But when youth, the dream, departs. 
It takes something from our hearts. 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better. 

Under manhood's sterner reign : 
Still we feel that something sweet 

* From "The Poetical Writings of Richard Henry Stoddard" ; copyright, 1880, 
by Charles Saibner's Sons. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 133 

Follow'd youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanish'd, 

And we sigh for it in vain : 
We behold it everywhere. 
On the earth, and in the air, 

But it never comes again. 

Ri€HARD Henry Stoddard. 

SOME DAY OF DAYS 

Some day, some day of days, threading the street 

With idle, heedless pace, 

Unlooking for such grace 

I shall behold your face ! 
Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet. 

Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May, 

Or winter's icy chill 

Touch whitely vale and hill. 

What matter ? I shall thrill 
Through every vein with summer on that day. 

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back, 

And for a moment there 

I shall stand fresh and fair, 

And drop the garment care } 
Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack. 

I shut my eyes now, thinking how 't will be — 

How face to face each soul 

Will slip its long control, 

Forget the dismal dole 
Of dreary Fate's dark, separating sea ; 

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting. 

The past with all its fears, 

Its silences and tears, 

Its lonely, yearning years. 
Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting. 

Nora Perry. 

"DISTANCE LENDS ENCHANTMENT'' 

The sails we see on the ocean 

Are as white as white can be ; 
But never a one in the harbor 

Is as white as the sails at sea. 

And the clouds that crown the mountain 
With purple and gold delight 



134 GOLDEN POEMS 

Turn to cold gray mist and vapor 
Ere ever we reach the height. 

O distance, thou dear enchanter, 
Still hold in thy magic veil 

The glory of far-off mountains. 
The gleam of the far-off sail 

Hide in thy robes of splendor, 
O mountain, cold and gray ; 

O sail, in thy snowy whiteness. 
Come not into port, I pray ! 



Anonymous. 



A BOOK 



He ate and drank the precious words, 

His spirit grew robust ; 
He knew no more that he was poor, 

Nor that his frame was dust. 
He danced along the dingy days ; « 

And this bequest of wings 
Was but a book. What liberty 

A loosen'd spirit brings ! 

Emily Dickinson. 

THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES 

The night has a thousand eyes. 

And the day but one ; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 

With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When love is done. 

Francis W. Bourdillon. 

SLEEPING AND DREAMING 

I softly sink into the bath of sleep ; 

With eyelids shut, I see around me close 
The mottled, violet vapors of the deep. 

That wraps me in repose. 

I float all night in the ethereal sea 

That drowns my pain and weariness in balm, 

Careless of where its currents carry me, 
Or settle into calm. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES 135 

That which the ear can hear is silent all ; 

But, in the lower stillness which I reach, 
Soft whispers call me, like the distant fall 

Of waves upon the beach. 

Now, like the mother, who, with patient care, 
Has soothed to rest her faint, o'erwearied boy, 

My spirit leaves the couch, and seeks the air, 
For freedom and for joy. 

Drunk up like vapors by the morning sun, 

The past and future rise and disappear. 
And times and spaces gather home, and run 

Into a common sphere. 

My youth is round me, and the silent tomb 

Has burst to set its fairest prisoner free, 
And I await her in the dewy gloom 

Of the old trysting tree. 

I mark the flutter of her snowy dress ; 

I hear the tripping of her fairy feet ; 
And now, press 'd closely in a pure caress, 

With ardent joy we meet. 

I tell again the story of my love, 

I drink again her lip's delicious wine ; 
And, while the same old stars look down above. 

Her eyes look up to mine. * 

I dream that I am dreaming, and I start. 
Then dream that naught so real comes in dreams ; 

Then kiss again to re-assure my heart 
That she is what she seems. 

Our steps tend homeward ; lingering at the gate, 
I breathe, and breathe again, my fond good-night. 

She shuts the cruel door, and still I wait 
To watch her window-Hght. 

I see the shadow of her dainty head 

On curtains that I pray her hand may stir. 

Till all is dark ; and then I seek my bed 
To dream I dream of her. 

Like the swift moon that slides from cloud to cloud. 
With only hurried space to smile between, 

I pierce the phantoms that around me crowd, 
And ghde from scene to scene. 

I clasp warm hands that long have lain in dust, 
I hear sweet voices that have long been still ; 

And earth and sea give up their hallow'd trust 
In answer to my will. 



136 GOLDENPOEMS 

And now, high-gazing toward the starry dome, 
I see three airy forms come floating down — 

The long-lost angels of my early home — 
My night of joy to crown. 

They pause above, beyond my eager reach. 

With arms enwreathed and forms of heavenly grace, 

And smiling back the love that smiles from each, 
I see them face to face. 

They breathe no language, but their holy eyes 
Beam an embodied blessing on my heart, 

That warm within my trustful bosom lies. 
And never will depart. 

I drink the effluence, till through all my soul 

I feel a flood of peaceful rapture flovr, 
That swells to joy at last, and bursts control, 

And I awake ; but lo ! 

With eyelids shut, I hold the vision fast. 
And still detain it by my ardent prayer. 

Till faint and fainter grown, it fades at last 
Into the silent air. 

My God ! I thank thee for the bath of sleep, 
That wraps in balm my weary heart and brain. 

And drowns within its waters still and deep 
My sorrow and my pain. 

I thank thee for my dreams, which loose the bond 

That binds my spirit to its daily load, 
And gives it angel wings, to fly beyond 

Its slumber-bound abode. 

I thank thee for these glimpses of the clime 
That lies beyond the boundaries of sense, 

Where I shall wash away the stains of time 
In floods of recompense ; — 

Where, when this body sleeps to wake no more, 
My soul shall rise to everlasting dreams, 

And find unreal all it saw before. 
And real all that seems. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



PART IV 



The pledge of Friendship : it is still divine, 

Though watery floods have quench' d its burning wine. 

Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold — 

The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold — 

Around its brim the hand of Nature throws 

A garland sweeter than the banquet's rose. 

Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl, 

Warm with the sunshine of Anacr eon's soul ; 

But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave 

That fainting Sidney perish' d as he gave. 

'T is the heart's current lends the cup its glow. 

Whatever the fountain whence the draught may flow. 



PART IV 
FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 



FOREVER 



Those we love truly never die, 
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, 
A ring and flowers, types of Hfe and death. 

Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves. 
And life all pure is love ; and love can reach 
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend he has whose face will never change — 
A dear communion that will not grow strange ; 

The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears. 

She 's thine unto the end. 

Thank God for one dear friend. 
With face still radiant with the light of truth. 
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth. 

Through twenty years of death. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 

THE MEMORY OF THE HEART 

If stores of dry and learned lore we gain, 
We keep them in the memory of the brain ; 
Names, things, and facts, — whate'er we knowledge call — 
There is the common ledger for them all ; 
And images on this cold surface traced 
Make slight impression, and are soon effaced. 
But we 've a page, more glowing and more bright, 
On which our friendship and our love to write ; 
That these may never from the soul depart. 
We trust them to the memory of the heart. 

139 



I40 GOLDEN POEMS 

There is no dimming, no effacement there ; 
Each new pulsation keeps the record clear; 
Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill. 
Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still. 

Daniel Webster. 

AULD LANG SYNE 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 

And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the go wans fine ; 
But we 've wander'd mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And here 's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie 's a hand o' thine ; 
And we '11 tak a right guid-willie waught 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp. 

And surely I '11 be mine ; 
And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 



Robert Burns. 



OUR SISTER 



Her face was very fair to see. 

So luminous with purity : — 

It had no roses, but the hue 

Of lilies lustrous with their dew — 

Her very soul seem'd shining through ! 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 141 

Her quiet nature seem'd to be 
Tuned to each season's harmony. 
The holy sky bent near to her ; 
She saw a spirit in the stir 
Of solemn woods. The rills that beat 
Their mosses with voluptuous feet, 
Went dripping music through her thought. 
Sweet impulse came to her unsought 
From graceful things, and beauty took 
. A sacred meaning in her look. 

In the great Master's steps went she 

With patience and humility. 

The casual gazer could not guess 

Half of her veiled loveliness ; 

Yet ah! what precious things lay hid 

Beneath her bosom's snowy lid : — 

What tenderness and sympathy, 

What beauty of sincerity. 

What fancies chaste, and loves, that grew 

In heaven's own stainless light and dew ! 

True woman was she day by day 
In suffering, toil, and victory. 
Her life, made holy and serene 
By faith, was hid with things unseen. 
She knew what they alone can know 
Who live above but dwell below. 

Horatio Nelson Powers. 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER 

We have been friends together. 

In sunshine and in shade ; 
Since first beneath the chestnut-trees 

In infancy we played. 
But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together, — 

Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been gay together ; 

We have laugh'd at little jests ; 
For the fount of hope was gushing 

Warm and joyous in our breasts. 
But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 

And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
We have been gay together, — 

Shall a light word part us now ? 



142 GOLDEN POEMS 

We have been sad together, — 

We have wept with bitter tears 
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumber'd 

The hopes of early years. 
The voices which were silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
We have been sad together, — 

O, what shall part us now ? 

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 



TO THOMAS MOORE 

My boat is on the shore. 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here 's a double health to thee ! 

Here 's a sigh to those Vv^ho love me, 

And a smile to those who hate ; 
And, whatever sky 's above me 

Here 's a heart for any fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; \ 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasp'd upon the brink. 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace to thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 

Lord Byron. 



IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LAN DOR 

Back to the flower-town, side by side. 

The bright months bring, 
New-born, the bridegroom and the bride. 

Freedom and spring. 

The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, 

Fill'd full of sun ; 
All things come back to her, being free ; 

All things but one. 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 143 

In many a tender wheaten plot 

Flowers that were dead 
Live, and old suns revive ; but not 

That holier head. 

By this white wandering waste of sea, 

Far north, I hear 
One face shall never turn to me 

As once this year : 

Shall never smile and turn and rest 

On mine as there, 
Nor one most sacred hand be prest 

Upon my hair. 

I came as one whose thoughts half linger, 

Half run before ; 
The youngest to the eldest singer 

That England bore. 

I found him whom I shall not find 

Till all grief end, 
In holiest age our mightiest mind, 

Father and friend. 

But thou, if anything endure, 

If hope there be, 
O spirit that man's Hfe left pure, 

Man's death set free. 

Not with disdain of days that were 

Look earthward now ; 
Let dreams revive the reverend hair. 

The imperial brow ; 

. Come back in sleep, for in the life 
Where thou art not 
We find none like thee. Time and strife 
And the world's lot 

Move thee no more ; but love at least 

And reverent heart 
May move thee, royal and releast, 

Soul, as thou art. 

And thou, his Florence, to thy trust 

Receive and keep, 
Keep safe his dedicated dust, 

His sacred sleep. 



144 GOLDEN POEMS 

So shall thy lovers, come from far, 

Mix with thy nam^ 
As morning-star with evening-star 

His faultless fame. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

Green be the turf above thee. 

Friend of my better jiays 1 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep. 
And long, where thou art lying, 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts whose truth was proven. 

Like thine, are laid in earth. 
There should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine, 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow ; 
But I 've in vain essay'd it. 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee. 

Nor thoughts nor words are free ; 
The grief is fix'd too deeply 

That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



A SOLDIER-POET 

Where swell the songs thou shouldst have sung 

By peaceful rivers yet to flow ? 
Where bloom the smiles thy ready tongue 

Would call to lips that loved thee so ? 
On what far shore of being toss'd, 

Dost thou resume the genial stave. 
And strike again the lyre we lost 

By Rappahannock's troubled wave ? 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 145 

If that new world hath hill and stream, 

And breezy bank, and quiet dell. 
If forest murmur, waters gleam. 

And wayside flowers their story tell, 
Thy hand ere this has pluck'd the reed 

That waver'd by the wooded shore ; 
Its prisoned soul thy fingers freed. 

To float melodious evermore. 

So seems it to my musing mood. 

So runs it in my surer thought, 
That much of beauty, more of good, 

For thee the rounded years have wrought ; 
That life will live, however blown 

Like vapor on the summer air ; 
That power perpetuates its own ; 

That silence here is music there. 

RossiTER Johnson. 



INVITATION TO IZAAK WA-LTON 

Whilst in this cold and blustering clime. 
Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar, 

We pass away the roughest time 
Has been of many years before ; 

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks 
The chillest blasts our peace invade, - 

And by great rains our smallest brooks 
Are almost navigable made ; 

Whilst all the ills are so improved 

Of this dead quarter of the year. 
That even you, so much beloved. 

We would not now wish with us here : 

In this estate, I say, it is 

Some comfort to us to suppose 
That in a better clime than this 

You, our dear friend, have more repose ; 

And some delight to me the while, 

Though Nature now does weep in rain, 

To think that I have seen her smile. 
And haply may I do again. 

If the all-ruling Power please 

We live to see another May, 
We '11 recompense an age of these 

Foul days in one fine fishing-day. 



146 GOLDENPOEMS 

We then shall have a day or two, 

Perhaps a week, wherein to try 
What the best master's hand can do 

With the most deadly killing fly. 

A day with not too bright a beam ; 

A warm, but not a scorching sun ; 
A southern gale to curl the stream ; 

And, master, half our work is done. 

Then, whilst behind some bush we wait 

The scaly people to betray, 
We '11 prove it just, with treacherous bait, 

To make the preying trout our prey ; 

And think ourselves in such an hour 
Happier than those, though not so high, 

Who, like leviathans, devour 
Of meaner men the smaller fry. 

This, my best friend, at my poor home. 
Shall be our pastime and our theme ; 

But then — should you not deign to come. 
You make all this a flattering dream. 

Charles Cotton. 

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 

Come, when no graver cares employ. 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter. 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few 

Who give the Fiend himself his due. 

Should eighty thousand college councils 
Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right. 

Yet one lay hearth would give you welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You '11 have no scandal while you dine. 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 

For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 

Where if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 

And on through zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances, 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win ; 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters^ 
Dear to the man that is dear to God : 

How best to help the slender store. 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; 

How gain in life, as life advances. 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 

But when the wreath of March has blossom'd. 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pay one visit here. 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many, and many a happy year. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



TO VICTOR HUGO 

Victor in poesy ! Victor in romance ! 
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears ! 
French of the French and lord of human tears ! 
Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance. 
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance 
Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers ! 
Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of years 
As yet unbroken ! Stormy voice of France, 
Who does not love our England, so they say ; 
I know not ! England, France, all men to be, 
Will make one people, ere man's race be run ; 



-i^^l 



148 GOLDEN POEMS 

And I, desiring that diviner day, 

Yield thee full tnanks for thy full courtesy 

To younger England, in the boy, my son. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELE- 
BRATION 

[May 28, 1879.] 

I 

Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us, 
Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim, 

Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us 
That blush into life at the sound of thy name. 

The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers — 
I hear the old song with its tender refrain ; 

What passion lies hid in those honey-voiced numbers 1 
What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain ! 

The home of my childhood comes back as a vision — 
Hark ! Hark ! A soft chord from its song-haunted room ! 

'T is a morning of May, when the air is Elysian — . 
The syringa in bud and the Ulac in bloom — 

We are clustered around the " Clementi " piano — 
There were six of us then — there are two of us now ; 

She is singing — the girl with the silver soprano — 
How " The Lord of the Valley ' ' was false to his vow : 

" Let Erin remember ' ' the echoes are calling — 
Through " The Vale of Avoca" the waters are rolled — 

" The Exile" laments while the night-dews are falling — 
" The Morning of Life " dawns again as of old. 

But ah, those warm love-songs of fresh adolescence ! 

Around us such raptures celestial they flung 
That it seem'd as if Paradise breathed its quintessence 

Through the seraph-toned lips of the maiden that sung ! 

Long hush'd are the chords that my boyhood enchanted 
As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirr'd, 

Yet still with their music is memory haunted 
And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard. 

I feel like the priest to his altar returning — 

The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there ; 

The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning, 
And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air. 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 149 

II 

The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving 
In her azure-domed hall with its tapestried floor, 

And Spring the last tear-drops of May-dew is leaving 
On the daisy of Burns and the shamrock of Moore. 

How like, how unlike, as we view them together, 
The song of the minstrels whose record we scan — 

One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather. 
One sweet as the breath from an odalisque's fan ! 

Ah, passion can glow 'mid a palace's splendor ; 

The cage does not alter the song of the bird. 
And the curtain of silk has known whispers as tender 

As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard. 

No fear lest the step of the soft-slipper'd Graces 

Should fright the young Loves from their warm little nest, 

For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces. 
Beats time with the pulse in the peasant-girl's breast ! 

Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature's bestowing ! 

Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold ; 
Alike, when its musical waters are flowing, 

The shell from the seaside, the chalice of gold. 

The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened ; 

Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty's shrine ; 
For Coila's loved minstrel the holly -wreath glisten'd ; 

For Erin's the rose and the myrtle entwine. 

And while the fresh blossoms of Summer are braided 
For the sea-girdled, stream-silver'd, lake-jewell'd isle. 

While her mantle of vendure is woven unfaded. 
While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile, 

The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted. 

Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the shore, 

The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted. 

Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

A FRIEND'S GREETING 
[To J. G. Whittier, on His Seventieth Birthday.] 

Snow-bound for earth, but summer-soul'd for thee, 

Thy natal morning shines : 
Hail, friend and poet. Give thy hand to me, 

And let me read its lines ! 

For skill'd in fancy's palmistry am T, 
When years have set their crown ; 



I50 GOLDEN POEMS 

When life gives light to read its secrets by, 
And deed explains renown. 

So, looking backward from thy seventieth year 

On service grand and free. 
The pictures of thy spirit's past are clear, 

And each interprets thee. 

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires 

In time's lost morning knew, 
Kindhng as priest the lonely altar-fires 

That from earth's darkness grew. 

Then wise with secrets of Chaldaean lore, 

In high Akkadian fane ; 
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shore. 

In Thothmes' glorious reign. 

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 

That Judah's kings betray'd, 
Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees. 

Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 

And, ah ! most piteous vision of the past. 

Drawn by thy being's law, 
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast, 

Beneath the hon's paw. 

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon 

The Paynim helm and shield ! 
How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon, 

Thy white plume o'er the field. 

Strange contradiction ! where the sand waves spread 

The boundless desert sea. 
The Bedouin spearmen found their destined head, 

Their dark-eyed chief — in thee ! 

And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell. 

And Skald by Norway's foam. 
Ere fate of poet fix'd thy soul to dwell 

In this New England home. 

Here art thou poet, — more than warrior, priest ; 

And here thy quiet years 
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast, 

Or clash of swords or spears. 

The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains, 
These thou wert sent to teach : 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 151 

Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins, 
Is turn'd to gentle speech. 

Not less, but more, than others hast thou striven ; 

Thy victories remain : 
The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven, 

Have lost their power to pain. 

Apostle pure of freedom and of right. 

Thou had' St thy one reward : 
Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight 

The coming of the Lord ! 

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs. 

Slumbers the blade of truth ; 
But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs 

The eager hope of youth. 

Another line upon thy hand I trace, 

All destinies above : 
Men know thee most as one that loves his race, 

And bless thee with their love ! 

Bayard Taylor. 



PART V 
SI nn^ 



Ah, sad are they who know not love, 
But, far from passion's tears and smiles, 

Drift down a moonless sea beyond 
The silvery coasts of fairy isles. 

And sadder they whose longing lips 
Kiss empty air, and never touch 

The dear warm mouth of those they love, 
Waiting, wasting, suffering much. 

But clear as amber, fine as musk. 
Is life to those who, pilgrim-wise. 

Move hand in hand from dawn to dusk, 
Each morning nearer Paradise. 

Oh, not for them shall angels pray! , 
They stand in everlasting light ; 

They walk in Allah's smile by day. 
And slumber in his heart by night. 



PART V 
LOVE 



WAKE NOW, MY LOVE 

Wake now, my Love, awake ! for it is time : 

The rosy Morne long since left Tithons bed, 

All ready to her silver coche to clyme. 

And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed. 

Hark ! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies. 

And carroU of Love's praise : 

The merry larke hir mattins sings aloft; 

The thrush replyes ; the mavis descant playes ; 

The ouzell shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; 

So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 

To this dayes meriment. 

Ah 1 my deere Love, why doe ye sleepe thus long. 

When meeter were that ye should now awake, 

T' awayt the comming of your joyous make. 

And hearken to the birds love-learned song. 

The deawy leaves among ? 

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 

That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. 

Edmund Spenser {EpUhalamion). 

TRUE LOVE 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments: love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove ; 

O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark. 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy Hps and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error, and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

William Shakespeare. 

155 

« 



156 GOLDEN POEMS 

MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just exchange one to the other given ; 

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven : 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides ; 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; 

I cherish his because in me it bides : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

WHEN IN DISGRACE WITH FORTUNE 
AND MEN'S EYES 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state 
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries 
And look upon myself and curse my fate, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featured like him, like him with friends possess' d, 
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state. 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate : 
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

William Shakespeare. 

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 

And I '11 not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honouring thee 

As giving it a hope that there 

It could not wither'd be ; 



LOVE ,57 

But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself but thee ! 

Ben Jonson. 

SONG 

At setting day and rising morn, 

With soul that still shall love thee, 
I '11 ask of Heaven thy safe return, 

With all that can improve thee. 
I '11 visit aft the birken bush 

Where first thou kindly told me 
Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, 

Whilst round thou didst infold me. 
To all our haunts I will repair, 

By greenwood shaw or fountain ; 
Or where the summer day I 'd share 

With thee upon yon mountain : 
There will I tell the trees and flowers, 

From thoughts unfeign'd and tender ; 
By vows you're mine, by love is yours 

A heart which cannot wander. 

Allan Ramsay. 

A GIRDLE 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown. 
His arms might do what this hath done. 

It was my heaven's extremest sphere. 
The pale which held that lovely deer : 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. 
Give me but what this ribbon bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round ! 

Edmund Waller. 

THE SHEPHERD'S LOVE 

Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! 
Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow. 
The world may find the Spring by following her 
For other print her airy steps ne'er left : 
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, 



158 GOLDEN POEMS 

Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk ! 
But like the soft west-wind she shot along, 
And where she went the flowers took thickest root, 
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot ! 

Ben Jonson. 

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON 

When love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair, 

And fetter'd with her eye. 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups pass swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crown'd, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like confined, I 

With shriller note shall sing 
The mercy, sweetness, majesty. 

And glories of my king ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
The enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 
If I have freedom in my love. 

And in my soul am free. 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Richard Lovelace. 

A CELEBRATION OF CHARTS 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 



LOVE 159 

As she goes all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty ; 
And, enamour'd, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight. 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth ! 
Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother 

Than words that soothe her ! 
And from her arch'd brows such a grace 

Sheds itself through the face, 
As alone there triumphs to the Hfe 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 

Have you seen but a bright Hly grow 

Before rude hands have touch'd it ? 
Have you mark'd but the fall o' the snow 

Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? 
Have you felt the wool of beaver ? 

Or swan's down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier ? 

Or the nard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 

Ben Jonson. 



CUPID AND CAMPASPE 

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 

At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. 

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows. 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 

Loses them too, and down he throws 

The coral of his lip — the rose 

Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how ; 

With these the crystal on his brow. 

And then the dimple of his chin ; 

All these did my Campaspe win ; 

At last he set her both his eyes. 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, hath she done this to thee ? 

What shall, alas, become of me ? 

John Lyly. 



i6o GOLDEN POEMS 

CHERRY RIPE 

There is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies blow ; 
A heavenly paradise is that place, 

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
There cherries grow that none may buy, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do inclose 

Of orient pearl a double row. 
Which when her lovely laughter shows. 

They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow, 
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy. 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 

All that approach with eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh. 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Richard Alison. 

WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prythee why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prythee why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Prythee why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do 't ? 

Prythee why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love. 

Nothing can make her : — 

The devil take her 1 

Sir John Suckling. 

JULIA 

Some ask'd me where the rubies grew. 

And nothing I did say, 
But with my finger pointed to 

The lips of Julia. 



LOVE i6i 

Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where ; 

Then spoke I to my girle, 
To part her Hps, and shew'd them there 

The quarelets of pearl. 

One ask'd me where the roses grew ; 

I bade him not go seek ; 
But forthwith bade my Julia show 

A bud in either cheek. 

Robert Herrick. 



ABSENCE 

From you have I been absent in the spring, 
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim. 
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, 
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odour and in hue, 
Could make me any summer's story tell, 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away. 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 

William Shakespeare. 



TAKE, O TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY 

Take, O, take those lips away. 

That so sweetly were forsworn. 
And those eyes, like break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn ! 
But my kisses bring again, 
Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 

Hide, O, hide those hills of snow, 

Which thy frozen bosom bears. 
On whose tops the pinks that grow 

Are yet of those that April wears ! 
But first set my poor heart free. 
Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



i62 GOLDEN POEMS 

HARK! HARK I THE LARK AT HEAVEN'S 
GATE SINGS 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaHced flowers that hes ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise. 

William Shakespeare {Cymheline). 

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS 

LOVE 

Come live with me and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hill and valley, grove and field. 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 
There will we sit upon the rocks. 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
There will I make thee beds of roses, 
With a thousand fragrant posies ; 
A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
Embroider' d all with leaves of myrtle ; 
A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Slippers lined choicely for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 
A belt of straw and ivy buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs. 
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May morning ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSION- 
ATE SHEPHERD 

Ie all the world and love were young 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 



LOVE 163 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb, 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yield ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

PAIN OF LOVE 

To live in hell, and heaven to behold. 

To welcome life, and die a living death. 

To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold. 

To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath. 

To tread a maze that never shall have end. 

To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears. 

To climb a hill, and never to descend. 

Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, 

To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree, 

To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, 

To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be. 

And weep those wrongs which never creature saw ; 

If this be love, if love in these be founded, 
• My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. 

Henry Constable. 

HOW MANY TIMES 

How many times do I love thee, dear ? 
Tell me how many thoughts there be 
In the atmosphere 
Of a new-fallen year, 



i64 GOLDEN POEMS 

Whose white and sable hours appear 

The latest flake of Eternity : 
So many times do I love thee, dear. 

How many times do I love, again ? 
Tell me how many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of the evening rain, 
Unravell'd from the tumbling main. 

And threading the eye of a yellow star 
So many times do I love, again. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 



/ DO CONFESS THOU'RT SWEET 

I DO confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find 

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 
Thy favors are but like the wind, 

That kisses everything it meets. 
And since thou can with more than one, 
Thou 'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. 

The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 
Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly smells ! 

But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, 
Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; 

But scent and beauty both are gone, 

And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 



% 



A PARTING 



Since there 's no help, come let us kiss and part : 

Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ; 

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 

That thus so clearly I myself can free. 

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, 

And, when we meet at any time again, 

Be it not seen in either of our brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies ; 

When faith is kneeling by his bed of death. 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — 

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, 

From death to life thou might' st him yet recover. 

Michael Drayton. 



LOVE 165 

AFTON WATER 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 'braes, _ 
Flow gently, I '11 sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills. 

Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills ! 

There daily I wander as noon rises high. 

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ! 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ! 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave ! 

Flow gently, sweet 'Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Robert Burns. , 

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY? 

O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 
She 's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her forever ; 
For nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects we, before thee ; 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 



i66 GOLDEN POEMS 

He 'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee !" 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely 

That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There 's nane again sae bonnie. 

Robert Burns. 

FIRST LOVE 

'T IS sweet to hear, 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 

'T is sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf ; 't is sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 

'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 

'T is sweet to be awakened by the lark, 
Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth. 
Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth ; 
Sweet is revenge, especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, \ 

By blood or ink ; 't is sweet to put an end 
To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 

Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 

Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 



LOVE 167 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 

Is first and passionate love, — it stands alone, 
Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 

The tree of knowledge has been plucked, — all 's known, — 
And life yields nothing further to recall 

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 

Lord Byron {Don Juan). 

HOW DO I LOVE THEE? 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways : 

I love thee to the depth and breath and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 

I love thee to the level of each day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candleHght. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath. 

Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

ASK ME NO MORE 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But, O too fond, when have I answered thee ? 

Ask me no more. 
Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 

Ask me no more. 
Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed : 
I strove against the stream, and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more, 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {The Princess). 



i68 GOLDENPOEMS 

AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him. 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I '11 ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her was to love her. 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly. 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee ! 

Robert Burns. 



THE DEPARTURE 

And on her lover's arm she leant. 

And round her waist she felt it fold ; 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old. 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day, 

The happy princess follow'd him. 

" I 'd sleep another hundred years, 
O love, for such another kiss ; " 
" O, wake forever, love, " she hears, 
" O love, 't was such as this and this ; " 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd through many a golden bar, 
The twilight melted into morn. 



LOVE 169 

" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 
" O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 
" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent bark ; 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 
The twilight died into the dark. 

A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where ? 
" O, seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there. ' ' 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Through all the world she follow'd him. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {The Day-Dream). 

ADIEU 

Let time and chance combine, combine, 

Let time and chance combine ; 
The fairest love from heaven above, 

That love of yours was mine 
My dear, 

That love of yours was mine. 

The past is fled and gone, and gone, 

The past is fled and gone ; 
If naught but pain to me remain, 

I '11 fare in memory on, 
My dear, 

I '11 fare in memory on. 

The saddest tears must fall, must fall, 

The saddest tears must fall ; 
In weal or woe, in this world below, 

I love you ever and all. 
My dear, 

I love you ever and all. 

A long road full of pain, of pain, 

A long road full of pain; 
One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part, — 
We ne'er can meet again, 

My dear, 
We ne'er can meet again. 

Hard fate will not allow, allow, 
Hard fate will not allow ; 



lyo GOLDEN POEMS 

We blessed were as the angels are, — 
Adieu forever now, 

My dear, 
Adieu forever now. 

Thomas Carlyle. 



O SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH 

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 

O, tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

O, were I thou, that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? 

O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown ; 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

O, tell her, brief is life, but love is long. 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (The Princess) 

MARY MORISON 

O Mary, at thy window be ! 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor ; 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 



LOVE 

Yestreen when to the trembhng string 
The dance gaed through the hghted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, — 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 

Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
" Ye are na Mary Morison. ' ' 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert Burns. 



171 



ANNIE LAURIE^ 

Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 

Where early fa's the dew ; 
Where me and Annie Laurie 

Made up the promise true ; 
Made up the promise true. 

And never forget will I ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I '11 lay me doun and die. 

She 's backit like the peacock. 

She 's breistit like the swan, 
She 's jimp about the middle, 

Her waist ye weel micht span ; 
Her waist ye weel micht span. 

And she has a rolling eye ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I '11 lay me down and die. 



Douglas. 



JENNY KISSED ME 

Jenny kissed me when we met. 

Jumping from the chair she sat in. 

Time, you thief ! who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in. 

Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad ; 

* Original version, composed previous to 1688. 



172 GOLDEN POEMS 

Say that health and wealth have miss'd me ; 
Say I 'm growing old, but add — 
Jenny kissed me ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN 

The little gate was reached at last, 

Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast. 

And said, — ^^ Auj wiedersehen /" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that night. 

She said, — "Auf wiedersehen / " 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, — "Auf wiedersehen I ' ' 

'T is thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 

I hear, — ^'Auf wiedersehen 1 ' ' 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain, 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, — "^w/ wiedersehen 1 ' ' 

James Russell Lowell. 

SEPARATION 

O DAYS and hours, your work is this : 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace. 

For fuller gain of after bliss : 

That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 

And unto meeting when we meet, 
DeHght a hundred-fold accrue. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {InMemoriam). 



LOVE 173 

ABSENCE 

When I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 
And now what lands between us lie, 

How can I be but eerie ? 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and weary 1 
It was na sae ye glinted by 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

Robert Burns. 

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 

The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle : 

Why not I with thine ? 

See, the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister flower v/ould be forgiven 

If it disdain'd its brother. 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea : 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

BONNIE MARY 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick Law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 
The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 

The shouts o' war are heard afar. 
The battle closes thick and bloody. 



174 GOLDEN POEMS 

It 's not the roar o' sea or shore 
Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 

Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 
It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

Robert Burns. 



THREE KISSES 

First time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd 

The finger of this hand wherewith I write ; 

And ever since it grew more clean and white, 

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its " O, list, " 

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 

Than that first kiss. The second pass'd in height 

The first, and sought the forehead, and half miss'd. 

Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed ! 

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state ; since when, indeed, 

I have been proud, and said, " My love, my own ! " 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



/ ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE 

I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? — 
To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream ; 
The champak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint. 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine, 

beloved as thou art! 

O, lift me from the grass ! 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 



LOVE 175 

My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast : 
O press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

O, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE 

O, MY Luve 's like a red, red rose 

That 's newly sprung in June ; 
O, my Luve 's like the melodie 

That 's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry ; 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
I will luve thee still, my dear. 

While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Robert Burns. 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 

I wonder do you feel to-day 

As I have felt, since, hand in hand. 
We sat down on the grass, to stray 

In spirit better through the land, 
This morn of Rome and May ? 

For me, I touch'd a thought, I know. 

Has tantalized me many times, 
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw 

Mocking across our path) for rhymes 
To catch at and let go. 

Help me to hold it ! First it left 

The yellowing fennel, run to seed 
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, 

Some old tomb's ruin ; yonder weed 
Took up the floating weft. 

Where one small orange cup amass' d 

Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 
Among the honey-meal: and last, 



176 GOLDEN POEMS 

Everywhere on the grassy slope 
I traced it. Hold it fast ! 

The champaign with its endless fleece 

Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 
Silence and passion, joy and peace, 

An everlasting wash of air — 
Rome's ghost since her decease. 

Such Hfe there, through such lengths of hours, 

Such miracles perform' d in play, 
Such primal naked forms of flowers, 

Such letting Nature have her way 
While Heaven looks from its towers ! 

How say you? Let us, O my dove. 

Let us be unashamed of soul, 
As earth lies bare to heaven above I 

How is it under our control 
To love or not to love ? 

I would that you were all to me. 
You that are just so much, no more. 

Nor yours, nor mine, — nor slave nor free ! 
Where does the fault lie ? what the core 

Of the wound, since wound must be ? 

I would I could adopt your will. 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 

Beating by yours, and drink my fill 

At your soul's springs, — your part, my part 

In life, for good and ill. 

No. I yearn upward, touch you close, 
Then stand av/ay. I kiss your cheek, 

Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose 
And love it more than tongue can speak — 

Then the good minute goes. 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute ? Must I go 
Stifl Hke the thistle-ball, no bar, 

Onward, whenever light winds blow, 
Fix'd by no friendly star ? 

Just when I seem'd about to learn 1 
Where is the thread now ? Off again ! 

The old trick ! Only I discern — 
Infinite passion, and the pain 

Of finite hearts that yearn. 

Robert Browning 



LOVE 177 

DORIS 

I SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden : 
Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; 

I sat and woo'd her through sunhght wheeling, 
And shadows steahng, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 

Wild summer roses of rare perfume, 
The while I sued her, kept hush'd and hearken'd 

Till shades had darken'd from gloss to gloom. 

She touch'd my shoulder with fearful finger : 
She said, " We linger ; we must not stay ; 

My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wander : 
Behold them yonder — how far they stray 1 ' ' 

I answer'd bolder, " Nay, let me hear you 

And still be near you, and still adore ; 
No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearHng ; 

Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more ! ' ' 

She whisper'd, sighing : " There will be sorrow 

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 

I shall be scolded, and sent away. ' ' 

Said I, replying : "If they do miss you. 

They ought to kiss you when you get home ; 

And well rewarded by friends and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you come. ' ' 

" They might remember, ' ' she answered meekly, 
" That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild ; 

But if they love me 't is none so fervent ; 
I am a servant, and not a child. " 

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, 

And love did win me to swift reply : 
" Ah ! do but j5rove me, and none shall bind you 

Nor fray nor find you, until I die. " 

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, 

As if debating in dreams divine ; 
But I did brave them — I told her plainly 

She doubted vainly ; she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 

Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes, 
And homeward drove them, we two together, 

Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her — 
My Doris tender, my Doris true : 



1/8 GOLDEN POEMS 

That I, her warder, did always bless her, 
And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 

With love excelling and undefiled ; 
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. 

Arthur J. Munby. 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May -time and the cheerful dawn 

A dancing shape, an image gay. 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions hght and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good ' 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A "perfect woman, nobly plann'd. 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 

William Wordsworth. 

LONGING 

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again ! 
For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 



LOVE 179 

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
A messenger from radiant climes, 
And smile on thy new world, and be 
As kind to others as to me ! 

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth. 
Come now, and let me dream it truth ; 
And part my hair, and kiss my brow, 
And say : My love ! why sufferest thou ? 

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again ! 
For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 

Matthew Arnold. 



JANETTE'S HAIR 

Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, 
Let me tangle a hand in your hair — my pet; 
For the world to me had no daintier sight 
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder white ; 
Your beautiful dark brown hair — my pet. 

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
It was finer than silk of the floss — my pet ; 
'T was a beautiful, mist falling down to your wrist, 
'T was a thing to be braided, and jewell'd, and kiss'd — 
'T was the loveliest hair in the world — my pet. 

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown — my pet ; 
But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, 
Your beautiful plenty of hair — my pet. 

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette. 
Revealing the old, dear story — my pet ; 
They were gray with that chasten'd tinge of the sky 
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, 

And they match'd with your golden hair — my pet. 

Your lips — but I have no words, Janette — 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds — my pet, 
When the spring is young, and roses are wet, 
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set, 

And they suited your gold brown hair — my pet. 

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
'T was a silken and golden snare — my pet ; 



i8o GOLDE N POEMS 

But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore, 

With my fingers enmesh'd in your hair — my pet. 

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
With your lips and your eyes and your hair — my pet ; 
In the darkness of desolate years I moan. 
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
That covers your golden hair — my pet. 

Charles Graham H alpine. 

NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 

Never the time and the place 
And the loved one all together I 
This path — how soft to pace ! 
This May — what magic weather ! 
Where is the loved one's face ? 
In a dream that loved one's face meets mine. 
But the house is narrow, the place is bleak 
Where, outside, rain and wind combine 
With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, 
With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek. 
With a malice that marks each word, each sign ! 
O enemy sly and serpentine, 

Uncoil thee from the waking man ! 
Do I hold the Past 
Thus firm and fast 
Yet doubt if the Future hold I can ? 
This path so soft to pace shall lead 
Thro' the magic of May to herself indeed ! 
Or narrow if needs the house must be. 
Outside are the storms and strangers : we — 
Oh, close, safe, warm, sleep I and she, 
— I and she ! 

Robert Browning. 

WE TWAIN 

Oh, earth and heaven are far apart ! 

But what if they were one, 
And neither you nor I, sweetheart. 

Had any way misdone ? 
When we like laughing rivers fleet, 

That cannot choose but flow. 
Among the flowers should meet and greet, 
Should meet and mingle so, 
Sweetheart — 

That would be sweet, I know. 



LOVE i8i 

No need to swerve and drift apart, 

Or any bliss resign ; 
Then I should be all yours, sweetheart, 

And you would be all mine. 
But ahl to rush, defiled and brown, 

From thaw of smirched snow, 
To spoil the corn, beat down and drown 

The rath red lilies low — 
Sweetheart, 

I do not want you so. 

For you and I are far apart ; 

And never may we meet, 
Till you are glad and grand, sweetheart. 

Till I am fair and sweet. 
Till morning light has kiss'd us white 

As highest Alpine snow. 
Till both are brave and bright of sight — 

Go wander high or low. 
Sweetheart; 

For God will have it so. 

Oh, heaven and earth are far apart ! 

If you are bond or free, 
And if you climb or crawl, sweetheart. 

Can no way hinder me. 
But see you come in lordly state, 

With mountain winds aglow. 
When I by dazzling gate shall wait. 

To meet and love you so. 
Sweetheart ! 

That will be heaven, I know. 

Amanda T. Jones. 



A MATCH 

If love were what the rose is, 

And I were hke the leaf. 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather. 
Blown fields or flowerful closes. 
Green pleasure or gray grief ; 
If love were what the rose is. 
And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are. 
And love were like the tune, 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 



i82 GOLDEN POEMS 

With kisses glad as birds are 

That get sweet rain at noon ; 
If I were what the words are, 

And love were like the tune. 

If you were life, my darling. 

And I your love were death, 
We'd shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With daffodil and starling 

And hours of fruitful breath ; 
If you were life, my darling, 

And I your love were death. 

If you were thrall to sorrow, 

And I were page to joy. 
We 'd play for lives and seasons 
With loving looks and treasons 
And tears of night and morrow 

And laughs of maid and boy ; 
If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy. 

If you were April's lady. 

And I were lord in May, 
We 'd throw with leaves for hours 
And draw for days with flowers. 
Till day like night were shady 

And night were bright like day ; 
If you were April's lady, 

And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 
We 'd hunt down love together, 
Pluck out his flying-feather. 
And teach his feet a measure, 

And find his mouth a rein ; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



KISS ME SOFTLY 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 
Malice has ever a vigilant ear ; 
What if Malice were lurking near ? 
Kiss me, dear ! 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 



LOVE 183 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 

Envy, too, has a watchful ear ; 

What if Envy should chance to hear ? ' 
Kiss me, dear ! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low ; 
Trust me, darling, the time is near 
When lovers may love with never a fear; — 
Kiss me, dear ! 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

John Godfrey Saxe. 

PEARLS 

Not what the chemists say they be, 

Are pearls — they never grew ; 
They come not from the hollow sea. 

They come from heaven in dew ! 

Down in the Indian sea it slips. 

Through green and briny whirls. 
Where great shells catch it in their lips, 

And kiss it into pearls ! 

If dew can be so beauteous made. 

Oh, why not tears, my girl ? 
Why not your tears ? Be not afraid — 

I do but kiss a pearl ! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



THE BROOKSIDE 

I wander'd by the brookside, 

I wander'd by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook flow, — 

The noisy wheel was still ; 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird. 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listen'd for a footfall, 

I listen'd for a word — 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



i84 GOLDEN POEMS 

He came not — no, he came not — - 

The night came on alone — 
The little stars sat, one by one. 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening wind pass'd by my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirr'd — 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder — 

I knew its touch was kind ; 
It drew me nearer — nearer — 

We did not speak one word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound we heard. 

Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). 

IF YOU WERE HERE 
A Song in Winter 

O Love, if you were here 

This dreary, weary day, — 
If your lips, warm and dear. 

Found some sweet word to say, — 
Then hardly would seem drear 

These skies of wintry gray. 

But you are far away, — 

How far from me, my dear ! 
What cheer can warm the day ? 

My heart is chill with fear, 
Pierced through with swift dismay ; 

A thought has turn'd Life sere : 

If you from far away 

Should come not back, my dear ; 

If I no more might lay 

My hand on yours, nor hear 

That voice, now sad, now gay, 
Caress my listening ear ; 

If you from far away 

Should come no more, my dear, — 

Then with what dire dismay 
Year join'd to hostile year 

Would frown, if I should stay 
Where memories mock and jeer ! 



LOVE i8s 

But I would come away 

To dwell with you, my dear ; 
Through unknown worlds to stray, — 

Or sleep ; nor hope, nor fear, 
Nor dream beneath the clay 

Of all our days that were. 

Philip BoTJRKE Marston. 

THE OLD STORY 

My heart is chill' d and my pulse is slow. 
But often and often will memory go, 
Like a bhnd child lost in a waste of snow, 
Back to the days when I loved you so — 
The beautiful long ago. 

I sit here dreaming them through and through, 
The blissful moments I shared with you — 
The sweet, sweet days when our love was new. 
When I was trustful and you were true — 
Beautiful days, but few ! 

Blest or wretched, fetter' d or free. 
Why should I care how your life may be, 
Or whether you wander by land or sea ? 
I only know you are dead to me. 
Ever and hopelessly. 

Oh, how often at day's decline 
I push'd from my window the curtaining vine, 
To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine — 
Type of a message that, half divine, 

Flash'd from your heart to mine. 

Once more the starlight is silvering all ; 
The roses sleep by the garden wall ; 
The night bird warbles his madrigal, 
And I hear again through the sweet air fall 
The evening bugle call. 

But summers will vanish and years will wane, 
And bring no light to your window pane ; 
No gracious sunshine nor patient rain 
Can bring dead love back to life again : 
I call up the past in vain. 

My heart is heavy, my heart is old. 
And that proves dross which I counted gold ; 
I watch no longer your curtain's fold ; 
The window is dark and the night is cold. 
And the story forever told. 
Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Percy). 



,86 ♦ GOLDEN POEMS 

SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW 

She is not fair to outward view, 

As many maidens be ; 
Her loveliness I never knew, 

Until she smiled on me. 
• Oh, then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply ; 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye : 
Her very frowns are fairer far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



WE PARTED IN SILENCE 

We parted in silence, we parted by night. 

On the banks of that lonely river ; 
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, 

We met — and we parted forever ! " 
The night-bird sung, and the stars above 

Told many a touching story, 
Of friends long pass'd to the kingdom of love. 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 

With the tears that were past controlling ; 
We vow'd we would never, no, never forget. 

And those vows at the time were consoling ; 
But those lips that echo'd the sounds of mine 

Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 

Has shrouded its fires forever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look. 

And my heart grows full of weeping ; 
Each star is to me a sealed book. 

Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
We parted in silence — we parted in tears. 

On the banks of that lonely river ; 
But the odor and bloom of those bygone years 

Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 

Julia Crawford. 



LOVE 187 

THE WHITE BIRDS 

I WOULD tHat we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam 

of the sea : 
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee ; 
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim 

of the sky, 
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may 

die. 

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily 

and rose, 
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor 

that goes', 
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of 

the dew : 
For I would we were changed to white birds on the white foam — 

I and you. 

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore. 
Where Time would surely forget us, and sorrow come near us 

no more : 
Soon far from the rose and the lily, the fret of the flames, would 

we be. 
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoy'd out on the foam 

of the sea. William Butler Yeats. 

EVENING SONG 
Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands. 
And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea : 
How long they kiss in sight of all the lands — 
Ah ! longer, longer we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun. 
As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine. 
And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'T is done. 
Love, lay thine hand in mine. 

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart ; 

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unHghted sands. 
O Night ! divorce our sun and sky apart, — 

Never our lips, our hands. ^Sidney Lanier. 

O, SAW YE THE LASS ? 
O, saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een ? 
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen. 
Her cheek hke the rose is, but fresher, I ween ; 
She 's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. 
The home of my love is below in the valley, 
Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee ; 



,88 GOLDEN POEMS 

But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen 
Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een. 

When night overshadows her cot in the glen, 
She '11 steal out to meet her loved Donald again ; 
And when the moon shines on the valley so green, 
I '11 welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 
As the dove that has wander' d away from his nest 
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, 
I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, 
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 

Richard Ryan. 

SERENADE 
[For Music] 
The western wind is blowing fair 

Across the dark ^gean sea. 
And at the secret marble stair 

My Tyrian galley waits for thee. 
Come down ! the purple sail is spread, 

The watchman sleeps within the town ; 
O leave thy lily-flower'd bed, 

O Lady mine, come down, come down ! 

She will not come, I know her well. 

Of lover's vows she hath no care. 
And little good a man can tell 

Of one so cruel and so fair. 
True love is but a woman's toy. 

They never know the lover's pain. 
And I, who loved as loves a boy, 

Must love in vain, must love in vain. 

O noble pilot, tell me true, 

Is that the sheen of golden hair ? 
Or is it but the tangled dew 

That binds the passion-flowers there ? 
Good sailor, come and tell me now, 

Is that my lady's Hly hand ? 
Or is it but the gleaming prow. 

Or is it but the silver sand ? 

No ! no ! 't is not the tangled dew, 

'T is not the silver-fretted sand, 
It is my own dear Lady true 

With golden hair and lily hand ! 
O noble pilot, steer for Troy ! 

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar ! 



LOVE 189 

This is the Queen of life and joy 

Whom we must bear from Grecian shore ! 

The waning sky -grows faint and blue ; 

It wants an hour still of day ; 
Aboard !. aboard ! my gallant crew, 

O Lady mine, away ! away ! 
O noble pilot, steer for Troy ! 

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar ! 
O loved as only loves a boy ! 
O loved forever, evermore 1 

Oscar Wilde. 

LOVE SCORNS DEGREES 

Love scorns degrees; the low he lifteth high, 
The high he draweth down to that fair plain 
Whereon, in his divine equality. 
Two loving hearts may meet, nor meet in vain; 
'Gainst such sweet levelling Custom cries amain, 
But o'er its harshest utterance one bland sigh, 
Breathed passion-wise, doth mount victorious still, 
For Love, earth's lord, must have his lordly will. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne {The Mountain of the Lovers). 

A SONG OF KRISHNA 

I KNOW where Krishna tarries in these early days of spring. 
When every wind from warm Malay brings fragrance on its wing; 
Brings fragrance stolen far away from thickets of the clove, 
In jungles where the bees hum and the Koil flutes her love ; 
He dances with the dancers, of a merry m.orrice one. 
All in the budding spring-time, for 't is sad to be alone. 

I know how Krishna passes these hours of blue and gold, 
When parted lovers sigh to meet and greet and closely hold 
Hand fast in hand, and every branch upon the Vakul-tree 
Droops downward with a hundred blooms, in every bloom a bee ; 
He is dancing with the dancers to a laughter-moving tone. 
In the soft awakening spring-time, when 't is hard to live alone. 

Where Kroona-flowers, that open at a lover's Hghtest tread. 
Break, and, for shame at what they hear, from white blush modest 

red. 
And all the spears on all the boughs of all the Ketuk -glades 
Seem ready darts to pierce the hearts of wandering youths and 

maids ; 
'T is there thy Krishna dances till the merry drum is done. 
All in the sunny spring time, when who can live alone ? 

Edwin Arnold {The Indian Song of Songs). 



I90 GOLDEN POEMS 

RECOMPENSE 

I MUST not think of thee ; and, tired, yet strong, 

I shun the thought that lurks in all delight — 

The thought of thee — and in the blue heaven's height, 

Arid in the sweetest passage of a song. 

Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng 

This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright ; 

But it must never, never come in sight ; 

I must stop short of thee the whole day long. 

But when sleep comes to close each difficult day. 

When night gives pause to the long watch I keep. 

And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, 

Must doff my will as raiment laid away, — 

With the first dream that comes with the first sleep, 

I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart. 

Pakenham Beatty. 



BIRD OF PASSAGE 

As THE day's last light is dying. 
As the night's first breeze is sighing, 
I send you, love, like a messenger-dove, my thought through the 
distance flying ; 

Let it perch on your sill ; or, better, 
Let it feel your soft hand's fetter. 
While you search and bring, from under its wing, love, hidden 
away like a letter. 

Edgar Fawcett. 



THE LOVE-LETTER 

The way I read a letter 's this : 
'T is first I lock the door. 

And push it with my fingers next. 
For transport it be sure. 

And then I go the furthest off, 
To counteract a knock ; 

Then draw my little letter forth 
And softly pick its lock. 

Then, glancing narrow at the wall, 
And narrow at the floor, 

For firm conviction of a mouse 
Not exorcised before, 



LOVE 



191 



Peruse how infinite I am 

To — no one that you know ! 
And sigh for lack of heaven, — but not 

The heaven the creeds bestow. 

Emily Dickinson. 

/ FEAR THY KISSES 

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; 

Thou needest not fear mine ; 
My spirit is too deeply laden 

Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; 

Thou needest not fear mine ; 
Innocent is the heart's devotion 

With which I worship thine. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

THE PATRIOTS BRIDE 

Oh ! give me back that royal dream 

My fancy wrought, 
When I have seen your sunny eyes 

Grow moist with thought ; 
And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart from mine 

Its spell had caught ; 
And laid me down to dream that dream divine. 

But true, methought. 
Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed as 
it ought. 

To learn to love sweet Nature more 

For your sweet sake. 
To watch with you — dear friend, with you ! — 

Its wonders break ; 
The sparkling spring in that bright face to see 

Its mirror make — 
On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing 

By linn and lake ; 
And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander 
music wake ! 

To wake the old weird world that sleeps 

In Irish lore ; 
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 

By MuUa's shore ; 
Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds 

That shine and soar ; 



102 GOLDEN POEMS 

Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows 
That Grattan swore ; 
The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah, me ! to 
sing no more. 

And all those proud old victor-fields 

We thrill to name, 
Whose memories are the stars that light 

Long nights of shame ; 
The Cairn, the Dun, the Rath, the Power, the Keep, 

That still proclaim 
In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep 

Was Eire's fame : 
Oh ! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we 
two have loved the same. 

Yet ah ! how truer, tenderer still 

Methought did seem 
That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home 

By Dodder's stream, 
The morning smile, that grew a fixed star 

With love-lit beam. 
The ringing laugh, lock'd hands, and all the far 

And shining stream 
Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream. 

For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love, 

Or both — dear Wife, 
Your image comes with serious thoughts. 

But tender, rife ; 
No idle plaything to caress or chide 

In sport or strife, 
But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 
To walk through life, 
Link'd hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband 
and true wife. 

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. 



TOGETHER 

I DREAMED of Paradise, — and still. 
Though sun lay soft on vale and hill 
And trees were green and rivers bright. 
The one dear thing that made delight 
By sun or stars or Eden weather, 
Was just that we two were together. 

I dream'd of Heaven, — with God so near ! 
The angels trod the shining sphere. 



LOVE 193 

And each was beautiful ; the days 
Were choral work, were choral praise : 

And yet in Heaven's far-shining weather 

The best was still — we were together ! 

I woke, — and lo, my dream was true, 

That happy dream of me and you ! 

For Eden, Heaven, no need to roam, — 

The foretaste of it all is Home, 

Where you and I through this world's weather 
Still work and praise and thank together. 

Together weave from love a nest 

For all that's good and sweet and blest 

To brood in, till it come a face, 

A voice, a soul, a child's embrace, — 

And then what peace of Bethlehem weather, 

What songs, as we go on together ! 

Together greet life's solemn real, 

Together own one glad ideal, 

Together laugh, together ache. 

And think one thought, " each other's sake, " 

And hope one hope, — in new-world weather 

To still go on, and go together ! 

William C. Gannett. 

■ I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING 

I SAW two clouds at morning, 

Tinged with the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one ; 
I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
And join their course, with silent force, 

In peace each other greeting ; 
Calm was their course, through banks of green, 
While dimpling eddies play'd between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
Like summer's beam, and summer's stream. 

Float on in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea where storms shall cease, 
A purer sky where all is peace. 

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard. 



194 GOLDEN POEMS 

LOVE'S WISDOM 

How long I've loved thee, and how well — 

I dare not tell ! 
Because, if thou shouldst once divine 

This love of mine, 
Or did but once my tongue confess 

My heart's distress. 
Far, far too plainly thou wouldst see 

My slavery. 
And, guessing what Love's wit should hide, 

Rest satisfied ! 

So, though I worship at thy feet, 

I '11 be discreet — 
And all my love shall not be told. 

Lest thou be cold, 
And, knowing I was always thine, 

Scorn to be mine. 
So I am durrib, to rescue thee 

From tyranny — 
And, by my silence, I do prove 

Wisdom and Lo\ e ! 

Margaret Deland. 

A WOMAN'S QUESTION 

Before I trust my fate to thee. 

Or place my hand in thine. 
Before I let thy future give 

Color and form to mine. 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet ? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to 
thee? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine. 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe. 
Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, 

Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back. 

While I have staked the whole. 
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so. 



LOVE 



195 



Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfil ? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still ? 
Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life wither and 
decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 
On all things new and strange ? 
It may not be thy fault alone, but shield my heart against thy own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim, 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — 
Not thou — had been to blame ? 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou wilt surely warn 
and save me now. 

Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear, 

The words would come too late ; 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse. 
So, comfort thee, my Fate, — 
Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, I would risk it all ! 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



A WOMAN'S LAST WORD 



Let 's contend no more, Love, 

Strive nor weep : 
All be as before. Love, 

— Only sleep ! 
What so wild as words are ? 

I and thou 
In debate, as birds are, 

Hawk on bough ! 

See the creature stalking 

While we speak ! 
Hush and hide the talking, 

Cheek on cheek. 

What so false as truth is, 

False to thee ? 
Where the serpent's tooth is, 

Shun the tree — 

Where the apple reddens. 

Never pry — 
Lest we lose our Edens, 

Eve and I. 



Be a god and hold me 

With a charm ! 
Be a man and fold me 

With thine arm ! 
Teach me, only teach, Love ! 

As I ought 
I will speak thy speech, Love, 

Think thy thought — 
Meet, if thou require it. 

Both demands. 
Laying flesh and spirit 

In thy hands. 

That shall be to-morrow. 

Not to-night : 
I must bury sorrow 

Out of sight : 
— Must a little weep, Love, 

(Foolish me !) 
And so fall asleep, Love, 

Loved by thee. 

Robert Browning. 



196 GOLDEN POEMS 

O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR! 

O, LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! 

We 're growing old ; 
But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 

That hearts grow cold. 
'T is long, long since our new love 

Made life divine ; 
But age enricheth true love, 

Like noble wine. 

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, 

And take thy rest ; 
Mine arms around thee twine, dear, 

And make thy nest. 
A many cares are pressing 

On this dear head ; 
But Sorrow's hands in blessing 

Are surely laid. 

O, lean thy life on mine, dear ! 

'T will shelter thee. 
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, 

On my young tree : 
And so, till boughs are leafless, 

And songbirds flown. 
We '11 twine, then lay us, griefless, 

Together down. 

Gerald Massey. 



PART VI 



Two voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains ; each a mighty voice : 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music. Liberty. 



There is a land, of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o^er all the world beside. 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light. 
And milder moons imparadise the night ; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutor' d age, and love-exalted youth : 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While in his soften' d looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? 
Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 
O, thou shall find, howe'er thy footsteps roam. 
That land thy country, and that spot thy home I 



PART VI 
LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 



OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 

The thunders breaking at her feet ; 
Above her shook the starry lights, 

She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, 
But fragments of her mighty voice 

Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down through town and field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men reveal'd 

The fullness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works. 

From her isle-altar gazing down. 
Who God-like grasps the triple forks, 

And king-like wears the crown. 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 
Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 

LOVE OF LIBERTY 

O FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade. 
Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful and successful war, 
Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, 

199 * 



200 GOLDEN POEMS 

My soul is sick, with every day's report 

Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 

It does not feel for man, the natural bond 

Of brotherhood is sever' d as the flax 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellows guilty of a skin 

Not color'd like his own ; and having power 

To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 

Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 

Lands intersected by a narrow frith 

Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 

Make enemies of nations, who had else 

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 

Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 

And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, 

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 

With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 

And having human feelings, does not blush 

And hang his head to think himself a man ? 

I would not have a slave to till my ground, 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 

No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave, 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 

William Cowper {The Task). 

INDEPENDENCE 

Thy spirit. Independence, let me share, 

Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye ; 

Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. 

Deep in the frozen regions of the north 

A goddess violated brought thee forth, 

Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime 

Hath bleach 'd the tyrant's cheek in every varying clime. 

What time the iron-hearted Gaul, 

With frantic Superstition for his guide, 

Arm'd with the dagger and the pall, 

The sons of Woden to the field defied 

The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 201 

In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow ; 

And red the stream began to flow ; 

The vanquish'd were baptized with blood ! 

Tobias George Smollett {Ode to Independence). 

THE HILLS WERE MADE FOR FREEDOM 

When Freedom from her home was driven, 

'Mid vine-clad vales of Switzerland, 
She sought the glorious Alps of heaven. 
And there, 'mid cliffs by lightnings riven, 
Gather'd her hero-band. 

And still outrings her freedom-song. 

Amid the glaciers sparkling there. 
At Sabbath bell, as peasants throng 
Their mountain fastnesses along, 

Happy, and free as air. 

The hills were made for freedom ; they 

Break at a breath the tyrant's rod ; 
Chains clank in valleys ; there the prey 
Writhes 'neath Oppression's heel alway : 

Hills bow to none but God ! 

William Goldsmith Brown (Vermont.) 

DOWNFALL OF POLAND 

O SACRED Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile. 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile. 
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars 
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van. 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man! 

Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — 
" O Heaven ! " he cried, " my bleeding country save ! — 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name we wave the sword on high ! 
And swear for her to live ! — with her to die ! " 

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form. 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 



202 GOLDEN POEMS 

' Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge, or death ! — the watchword and reply ; 
Then peal'd" the notes, omnipotent to charm. 
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm ! — 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
From rank to rank your volley' d thunder flew : — 
O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe. 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career ; — 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell. 
And Freedom shriek'd, as Kosciusko fell. 

Thomas Campbell {Pleasures of Hope), 



THE FALL OF GREECE 

Clime of the unforgotten brave. 
Whose land, from plain to mountain cave, 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty! can it be 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven, crouching slave ; 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

O servile offspring of the free, — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
They too will rather die than shame ; 
For Freedom's battle, once begun. 
Bequeath' d by bleeding sire to son. 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ; 
Attest it, many a deathless age ; 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 203 

A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 

Lord Byron {The Giaour). 



ON THE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 
Lie scatter' d on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old 
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones, 
Forget not : in thy book record their groans 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow 
A hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

John Milton. 



NATIONAL DECAY 

III fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supphed. 

A time there was ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
For him light Labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, Innocence and Health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that Folly pays to Pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 



204 GOLDEN POEMS 

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Oliver Goldsmith {The Deserted Village). 

FAIR GREECE ! SAD RELIC OF DEPARTED 

WORTH 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long accustom' d bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await. 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait, — 
O, who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? "No ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low. 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 

CHARLES XII OF SWEDEN 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride. 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ; 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
No dangers fright him, and no labors tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield. 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine. 
And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; 
* ' Think nothing gained, " he cries, ' ' till naught remain, 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
And all be mine beneath the polar sky. " 
The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 205 

Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 

And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ; — 

Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 

The vanquish' d hero leaves his broken bands, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 

Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, 

While ladies interpose and slaves debate. 

But did not Chance at length her error mend ? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound. 

Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 

His fall was destined to a barren strand, 

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 

He left the name at which the world grew pale, 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

Samuel Johnson {The Vanity of Human Wishes). 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE 

What constitutes a State? 
Not high-raised battlement or iabor'd mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown' d ; 

Not bays and broad-arm' d ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not Starr' d and spangled courts. 
Where low-brow' d baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No : — men, high-minded men. 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, — 

Men who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain ; 

Prevent the long-aim' d blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain, — 

These constitute a State ; 
And sovereign law, that State's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown. 
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; 

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks ; 

Such was this heaven-loved isle. 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall Freedom smile ? 



2o6 GOLDEN POEMS 

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 

Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'T is folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 

A CURSE ON THE TRAITOR 

O FOR a tongue to curse the slave. 

Whose treason, like a deadly blight, 
Comes o'er the councils of the brave. 

And blasts them in their hour of might ! 
May life's unblessed cup for him 
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim, — 
With hopes that but allure to fly. 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 

But turn to ashes on the lips. 
His country's curse, his children's shame, 
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame ; 
May he, at last, with lips of flame 
On the parch'd desert thirsting die, — 
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh, 
Are fading off, untouch' d, untasted. 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And when from earth his spirit flies. 

Just Prophet, let the damn'd one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 

Beholding heaven, and feeling hell ! 

Thomas Moore {Lalla Rookh). 

ENGLAND 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 

England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 

O, raise us up, return to us again ; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power ! 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 

The lowhest duties on herself did lay. 

William Wordsworth. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 207 

MOTHER ENGLAND 

I 
There was a rover from a western shore, 
England ! whose eyes the sudden tears did drown, 
Beholding the white cliff and sunny down 
Of thy good realm, beyond the sea's uproar. 
I, for a moment, dream'd that, long before, 
I had beheld them thus, when, with the frown 
Of sovereignty, the victor's palm and crown 
Thou from the tilting field of nations bore. 
Thy prowess and thy glory dazzled first ; 
But when in fields I saw the tender flame 
Of primroses, and full-fleeced lambs at play, 
Meseem'd I at thy breast, like these, was nursed ; 
Then mother — Mother England ! — home I came 
Like one who hath been all too long away ! 

n 

As nestling at thy feet in peace I lay, 
A thought awoke and restless stirr'd in me : 
* * My land and congeners are beyond the sea, 
Theirs is the morning and the evening day. 
Wilt thou give ear while this of them I say ? — 
'Haughty art thou, and they are bold and free, 
As well befits who have descent from thee. 
And who have trodden brave the forlorn way. 
Children of thine, but grown to strong estate ; 
Nor scorn from thee would they be slow to pay. 
Nor check from thee submissly would they bear ; 
Yet Mother England ! yet their hearts are great, 
And if for thee should dawn some darkest day. 
At cry of thine, how proudly would they dare ! ' " 

Edith M. Thomas. 



AVE IMPERATRIX 

Set in this stormy Northern sea. 
Queen of these restless fields of tide, 

England ! what shall men say of thee. 
Before whose feet the worlds divide ! 

The earth, a brittle globe of glass. 
Lies in the hollow of thy hand, 

And through its heart of crystal pass. 
Like shadows through a twilight land. 

The spears of crimson-suited war, 
The long white-crested waves of fight, 

And all the deadly fires which are 
The torches of the lords of Night. 



2o8 GOLDEN POEMS 

The yellow leopards, strain 'd and lean, 
The treacherous Russian knows so well, 

With gaping blacken'd jaws are seen 
To leap through hail of screaming shell. 

The strong sea-lion of England's wars 
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, 

To battle with the storm that mars 
The star of England's chivalry. 

The brazen-throated clarion blows 
Across the Pathan's reedy fen, 

And the high steeps of Indian snows 
Shake to the tread of armed men. 

And many an Afghan chief, who lies 
Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, 

Clutches his sword in fierce surmise 
When on the mountain -side he sees 

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes 
To tell how he hath heard afar 

The measured roll of English drums 
Beat at the gates of Kandahar. 

For southern wind and east wind meet 

Where, girt and crown' d by sword and fire, 

England with bare and bloody feet 
Climbs the steep road of wide empire. 

O lonely Himalayan height, 

Gray pillar of the Indian sky, 
Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight 

Our winged dogs of Victory ? 

The almond groves of Samarcand, 
Bokhara, where red lilies blow. 

And Oxus, by whose yellow sand 

The grave white-turban' d merchants go ; 

And on from thence to Ispahan, 

The gilded garden of the sun. 
Whence the long dusty caravan 

Brings cedar and vermilion ; 

And that dread city of Cabool 

Set at the mountain's scarped feet. 

Whose marble tanks are ever full 
With water for the noonday heat, 

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar 

A little maid Circassian 
Is led, a present from the Czar 

Unto some old and bearded khan, — 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 209 

Here have our wild war-eagles flown, 

And flapp'd wide wings in fiery fight ; 
But the sad dove, that sits alone 

In England — she hath no delight. 

In vain the laughing girl will lean 

To greet her love with love-lit eyes : 
Down in some treacherous black ravine. 

Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. 

And many a moon and sun will see 

The lingering wistful children wait 
To climb upon their father's knee ; 

And in each house made desolate 

Pale women who have lost their lord 

Will kiss the relics of the slain — 
Some tarnish'd epaulette — some sword — 

Poor toys to soothe such anguish'd pain. 

For not in quiet English fields 

Are these, our brothers, laid to rest. 
Where we might deck their broken shields 

With all the flowers the dead love best. 

For some are by the Delhi walls. 

And many in the Afghan land. 
And many where the Ganges falls 

Through seven mouths of shifting sand. 

And some in Russian waters lie, 

And others in the seas which are 
The portals to the East, or by 

The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. 

O wandering graves ! O restless sleep ! 

O silence of the sunless day ! 
O still ravine ! O stormy deep ! 

Give up your prey ! Give up your prey ! 

And those whose wounds are never heal'd, 

Whose weary race is never won, 
O Cromwell's England ! must thou yield 

For every inch of ground a son ? 

Go ! crown with thorns thy gold-crown'd head, 

Change thy glad song to song of pain ; 
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, 

And will not yield them back again. 

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore 

Possess the flower of English land — 
Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more. 

Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. 



2IO GOLDEN POEMS 

What profit now that we have bound 
The whole round world with nets of gold, 
- If hidden in our heart is found 

The care that groweth never old ? 

What profit that our galleys ride, 

Pine-forest like, on every main ? 
Ruin and wreck are at our side, 

Grim warders of the House of Pain. 

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet ? 

Where is our English chivalry ? 
Wild grasses are their burial sheet, 

And sobbing waves their threnody. 

O loved ones lying far away. 
What word of love can dead lips send ? 

O wasted dust 1 O senseless clay ! 
Is this the end ? is this the end ? 

Peace, peace ! we wrong the noble dead 

To vex their solemn slumber so ; 
Though childless, and with thorn-crown'd head, 

Up the steep road must England go. 

Yet when this fiery web is spun, 
Her watchmen shall descry from far 

The young Republic like a sun 

Rise from these crimson seas of war. 

Oscar Wilde. 



TO ENGLAND 

Now England lessens on my sight ; 

The bastion'd front of Wales, 
Discolor' d and indefinite, 

There like a cloud-wreath sails : 
A league, and all those thronging hills 

Must sink beneath the sea ; 
But while one touch of Memory thrills 

They yet shall stay with me. 

I claim no birthright in yon sod, 

Though thence my blood and name ; 
My sires another region trod, 

Fought for another fame ; 
Yet a son's tear this moment wrongs 

My eager watching eyes, 
Land of the lordliest deeds and songs 

Since Greece was great and wise ! 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 211 

Thou hedgerow thing that queen'st the Earth, 

What magic hast ? — what art ? 
A thousand years of work and worth 

Are clustered at thy heart : 
The ghosts of those that made thee free 

To throng thy hearth are wont ; 
And as thy richest reliquary 

Thou wear'st thy Abbey's front ! 

Aye, ere my distance is complete 

I see thy heroes come 
And crowd yon shadowy mountain seat, 

Still guardians of their home ; 
Thy Drake, thy Nelson, and thy Bruce 

Glow out o'er dusky tides ; 
The rival Roses blend in truce, 

And King with Roundhead rides. 

And with these phantoms born to last, 

A storm of music breaks ; 
And bards, pavilion 'd n the past, — 

Each from his tomb awakes ! 
The ring and glitter of thy swords. 

Thy lovers' bloom and breath. 
By them transmuted into words. 

Redeem the world from death. 

My path is West! My heart before 

Bounds o'er the dancing wave ; 
Yet something 's left I must deplore — 

A magic wild and grave : 
Though Honor live and Romance dwell 

By mine own streams and woods, 
Yet not in spire and keep so well 

Are built such lofty moods. 

England, perchance our love were more 

If we were match'd and met 
In battle squadron on the shore. 

Or here on ocean set : 
How were all other banners furl'd 

If that great duel rose ! 
For we alone in all the world 

Are worthy to be foes. 

If we should fail or you should fly, 

'T were but a twinn'd disgrace. 
For both are bound to bear on high 

The laurels of one race : — 
No fear ! new blooms shall bud above 

Upon the ancient wreath, 



212 GOLDEN POEMS 

For both can gentle be to Love, 
And insolent to Death. 

Land of the lion-hearted brood, 

I breathe a last adieu ; 
To Her who reigns across the flood 

My loyalty is true : 
But with my service to her o'er, 

Thou, England, own'st the rest, 
For I must worship and adore 

Whate'er is brave and best. 

Charles Leonard Moore. 



CANADA 

A Child of Nations, giant-limb' d, 
Who stand' St among the nations now, 

Unheeded, unadored, unhymn'd, 
With unanointed brow : 

How long the ignoble sloth, how long 
The trust in greatness not thine own ? 

Surely the lion's brood is strong 
To front the world alone ! 

How long the indolence, ere thou dare 
Achieve ..thy destiny, seize thy fame ; 

Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear 
A nation's franchise, nation's name ? 

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire. 
These are thy manhood's heritage ! 

Why rest with babes and slaves ? Seek higher 
The place of race and age. 

I see to every wind unfurl' d 

The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath ; 
Thy swift keels furrow round the world 

Its blood-red folds beneath ; 

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas ; 

Thy white sails swell with alien gales ; 
To stream on each remotest breeze 

The black smoke of thy pipes exhales. 

O Falterer, let thy past convince 
Thy future : all the growth, the gain. 

The fame since Cartier knew thee, since 
Thy shores beheld Champlain ! 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 213 

Montcalm and Wolfe ! Wolfe and Montcalm I 

Quebec, thy storied citadel 
Attest in burning song and psalm 

How here thy heroes fell ! 

O Thou that bor'st the battle's brunt 
At Queenstown, and at Lundy's Lane : 

On whose scant ranks but iron front 
The battle broke in vain ! 

Whose was the danger, whose the day, 

From whose triumphant throats the cheers, 

At Chrysler's Farm, at Chateauguay, 
Storming like clarion-bursts our ears ? 

On soft Pacific slopes, —- beside 

Strange floods that northward rave and fall, — 
Where chafes Acadia's chainless tide, — 

Thy sons await thy call. 

They wait ; but some in exile, some 

With strangers housed, in stranger lands ; 

And some Canadian lips are dumb 
Beneath Egyptian sands. 

O mystic Nile ! Thy secret yields 

Before us ; thy most ancient dreams 
Are mix'd with far Canadian fields 

And murmur of Canadian streams. 

But thou, my Country, dream not thou ! 

Wake, and behold how night is done, — 
How on thy breast, and o'er thy brow. 

Bursts the uprising sun ! 

Charles G. D. Roberts. 



THE BETTER COUNTRY 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
And his long nights of revelry and ease. 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam. 
His first, best country ever is at home. 



214 GOLDEN POEMS 

Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Oliver Goldsmith {The Traveller). 



MAZZINI 

A LIGHT is out in Italy, 

A golden tongue of purest flame ; 
We watch'd it burning, long and lone, 

And every watcher knew its name. 

And knew from whence its fervor came : 
That one rare light of Italy, 

Which put self-seeking souls to shame ! 

This light which burnt for Italy 

Through all the blackness of her night, 
She doubted, once upon a time. 

Because it took away her sight ; 

She looked and said, " There is no light ! " 
It was thine eyes, poor Italy ! 

That knew not dark apart from bright. 

This flame which burnt for Italy, 

It would not let her haters sleep ; 
They blew at it with angry breath, 

And only fed its upward leap, 

And only made it hot and deep. 
Its burning show'd us Italy, 

And all the hopes she had to keep. 

This light is out in Italy, 

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! 
For her sweet sake it spent itself. 

Too early flickering to its wane — ■ 

Too long blown over by her pain. 
Bow down and weep, O Italy, 

Thou canst not kindle it again ! 
Laura C. Redden Searing (Howard Glyndon). 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 215 

GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND 

Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
Across this watery waste we fare, 
Your image at our hearts we bear, 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be, 
Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 

Dear home in England, safe and fast, 
If but in thee my lot be cast. 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last ; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 

SAXON GRIT 

Worn with the battle by Stamford town, 

Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay, 
Harold the Saxon's sun went down. 

While the acorns were falling one autumn day. 
Then the Norman said, "I am lord of the land; 

By tenor of conquest here I sit ; 
I will rule you now with the iron hand ; " 
- But he had not thought of the Saxon grit. 

He took the land, and he took the men, 
And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne, 

Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen. 
Eat up the corn and drank the wine, 

And said to the maiden, pure and fair, 
" You shall be my leman, as is most fit, 

Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair ; " 
But he had not measured the Saxon grit. 

To the merry greenwood went bold Robin Hood, 

With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray, 
Driving the arrow into the marrow 

Of all the proud Normans who came in his way ; 
Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, 

Winning by valor, or foiling by wit. 
Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he, 

'This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. 

And Kett the tanner whipp'd out his knife, 

And Watt the smith his hammer brought down. 

For ruth of the maid he loved better than hfe. 
And by breaking a head, made a hole in the Crown. 



2i6 GOLDEN POEMS 

From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, 
" Our Hfe shall not be by the King's permit ; 

We will fight for the right, we want no more ; " 
Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit. 

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown 

From the acorns falling that autumn day, 
So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town 

To a nobler stature grew alway ; 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Standing by law and the human right, 
Many times failing, never once quailing. 

So the new day came out of the night. 

Then rising afar in the Western sea, 

A new world stood in the morn of the day, 
Ready to welcome the brave and free. 

Who could wrench out the heart and march away 
From the narrow, contracted, dear old land,. 

Where the poor are held by a cruel bit. 
To ampler spaces for heart and hand — 

And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. 

Steadily steering, eagerly peering. 

Trusting in God your fathers came. 
Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers. 

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. 
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, 

And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, 
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy. 

And made a new Moses of Saxon grit. 

They whittled and waded through forest and fen, 

Fearless as ever of what might befall ; 
Pouring out life for the nurture of men. 

In faith that by manhood the world wins all. 
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines ; 

Great with the rifle and great with the axe — 
Sending their notions over the oceans, > 

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. 

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar. 

Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, 
Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar, 

But a little too anxious about a good trade ; 
This is young Jonathan, son of old John, 

Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, 
Saxon men all of us, may we be one. 

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 217 

Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown 

From the acorns that fell on that autumn day, 
So this new manhood in city and town, 

To a nobler stature will grow alway : 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches. 

Slow to contention, and slower to quit. 
Now and then failing, never once quailing. 

Let us thank God for the Saxon grit. 

Robert Collyer. 



THE PATRIOTS DEATH 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death, 

Come to the mother, when she feels. 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet song and dance and wine — 
And thou art terrible ; the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds Hke a prophet's word. 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come when his task of fame is wrought ; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought ; 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prison'd men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry- 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm. 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck {Marco Bozzaris). 



2i8 GOLDEN POEMS 

WESTWARD THE COURSE OF EMPIRE 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame ; 

. In happy climes, where from the genial sun 
And virgin earth such scenes ensue. 
The force of art by nature seems outdone, 
And fancied beauties by the true : 

In happy climes the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides and virtue rules, 

Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense, 
The pedantry of courts and schools : 

There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts, 
The good and great uprising epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The first four acts already past. 
The fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

George Berkeley. 



BANNOCKBURN 

At Bannockbum the EngHsh lay — 
The Scots they were na far away, 
But waited for the break o' day 
That glinted in the east. 

But soon the sun broke through the heath 
And lighted up that field o' death, 
When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath. 
His heralds thus addressed : — 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie. 

Now 's the day, and now 's the hour, 
See the front o' battle lour ; 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 219 

See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? 
Let him follow me ! 

By Oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty 's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die 1 

Robert Burns. 

THE AMERICAN FLAG 

When Freedom, from her mountain height, 

Unfurl'd her standard to the air. 
She tore the azure robe of night. 

And set the stars of glory -there ! 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies. 
And striped its pure, celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light ; 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She call'd her eagle-bearer down. 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 
To hear the tempest trumping loud. 
And see the hghtning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm. 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
Child of the Sun ! to thee 't is given 

To guard the banner of the free. 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war. 

The harbingers of victory ! 



220 GOLDEN POEMS 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
And the long Hne comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the Hfe-blood, warm and wet. 
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where the sky-born glories burn. 
And, as his springing steps advance. 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 

And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale,^ 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee. 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home. 

By angel hands to valor given ! 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? 

Joseph Rodman Drake. 

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

O, SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleammg? 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming ; 

And the rocket's red glare the bombs bursting in air. 

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 221 

O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
G'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream. 

'T is the star-spangled banner ! O, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band' who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no more ? 

Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave 1 

O, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the" war's desolation ; 

Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heaven -rescued land 
Praise the power that has made and preserved us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 

And this be our motto, " In God is our trust. " 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

Francis Scott Key. 



GOD SAVE THE KING 

[English National Anthem] 
God save our gracious king, 
Long live our noble king, 
God save the king. 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us, 
God save the king, 

O Lord our God, arise, 
Scatter his enemies, 
And make them fall ; 
Confound their politics. 
Frustrate their knavish tricks ; 
On hirii our hopes we fix, 
God save us all. 



222 GOLDEN POEMS 

The choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour, 
Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice, 
God save the king. 

Henry Carey. 



FRENCH NATIONAL HYMN 

Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory : 

Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise ; 
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary — 

Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, 
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
Affright and desolate the land, 
While peace and liberty lie bleeding ? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
The avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on victory or death ! 

Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling. 

Which treacherous kings confederate raise ; 
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling. 

And lo ! our walls and cities blaze ! 
And shall we basely view the ruin. 
While lawless force, with guilty stride. 
Spreads desolation far and wide. 
With crimes and blood his hands embruing ? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on victory or death ! 

With luxury and pride surrounded. 

The vile insatiate despots dare. 
Their thirst of gold and power unbounded, 

To mete and vend the Hght and air ! 
Like beasts of burden they would lead us. 
Like gods, would bid their slaves adore ; 
But man is man, and who is more ? 
Then shall they longer lash and goad us ? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on victory or death ! 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 223 

O Liberty ! can man resign thee, 

Once having felt thy generous flame ? 
Can dungeons' bolts and bars confine thee, 

Or whips thy noble spirit tame ? 
Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield : 
But Freedom is our sword and shield, 
And all their arts are unavailing ! 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on 1 
All hearts resolved on victory or death ! 

{From the French of Rouget de Lisle.) 



PRUSSIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM 

I AM a Prussian ! see my colors gleaming — 

The black-white standard floats before me free ; 
For Freedom's rights, my father's heart-blood streaming. 

Such, mark ye, mean the black and white to me ! 
Shall I then prove a coward ? I '11 e'er be to the toward ! 

Though day be dull, though sun shine bright on me, 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Before the throne with love and faith I 'm bending, 

Whence, mildly good, I hear a parent's tone ; 
With filial heart, obedient ear I'm lending ; 

The father trusts — the son defends the throne ! 
Affection's ties are stronger — Hve, O my country, longer ! 

The King's high call o'erflows my breast so free ; 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Not every day hath sunny light of glory ; 

A cloud, a shower, sometimes dulls the lea ; 
Let none believe my face can tell the story, 

That every wish unfruitful is to me. 
How many far and nearer would think exchange much dearer ? 

Their Freedom's naught — how then compare with me ? 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be. 

And if the angry elements exploding. 

The lightnings flash, the thunders loudly roar, 
Hath not the world oft witness' d such foreboding ? 

No Prussian's courage can be tested more. 
Should rock and oak be riven, to terror I 'm not driven ; 

Be storm and din, let flashes gleam so free — 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Where love and faith so round the monarch duster. 
Where Prince and People so clasp firm their hands, 



224 GOLDEN POEMS 

'T is there alone true happiness can muster, 
Thus showing clear how firm the nation's bands. 

Again confirm the lealty ! the honest, noble lealty ! 
Be strong the bond, strike hands, dear hearts, with me ; 
Is not this Prussia ? Let us Prussians be ! 

{From the German) 



THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND 

Where is the German's Fatherland ? 
Is 't Prussia ? Swabia ? Is 't the strand 
Where grows the vine, where flows the Rhine ? 
Is 't where the gull skims Baltic's brine ? — 
No! — yet more great and far more grand 
Must be the German's Fatherland ! 

How call they then the German's land ? 
Bavaria ? Brunswick ? Hast thou scann'd 
It where the Zuyder Zee extends ? 
Where Styrian toil the iron bends ? — 
No, brother ; no ! — thou hast not spann'd . 
The German's genuine Fatherland. 

Is then the German's Fatherland 
Westphalia ? Pomerania ? Stand 
Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps, 
Wliere Weser winds, where Danube sweeps ; 
Hast found it now ? — Not yet 1 Demand 
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland ! 

Then say, where lies the German's land ? 
How call they that unconquer'd land ? 
Is 't where Tyrol's green mountains rise ? 
The Switzer's land I dearly prize. 
By Freedom's purest breezes fann'd — 
But no! 't is not the German's land ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land ? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
'T is surely Austria, proud and bold, 
In wealth unmatch'd, in glory old ? 
Oh, none shall write her name on sand ; 
But she is not the German's land. 

Say then, where lies the German's land ? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
Is 't Alsace ? Or Lorraine — that gem 
Wrench' d from the Imperial diadem 
By wiles which princely treachery plann'd ? 
No! these are not the German's land. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 225 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land ? 
Name now at last that mighty land ! 
Where'er resounds the German's tongue — 
Where German hymns to God are sung — 
There, gallant brother, take thy stand 1 
That is the German's Fatherland. 

That is his land, the land of lands, 
Where vows bind less than clasped hands, 
Where Valor lights the flashing eye, 
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie, 
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's brand — 
That is the German's Fatherland ! 

That is the German's Fatherland. 

Great God ! Look down and bless that land ! 

And give her noble children souls 

To cherish while existence rolls, 

And love with heart, and aid with hand. 

Their Universal Fatherland. 

{From the German^ 

PATRIOTISM 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd. 
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well : 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name. 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, 
Despite those titles, power and pelf. 
The wretch, concentred all in self. 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott {Lay of the Last Minstrel). 

WARREN'S ADDRESS 

Stand! the ground 's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What 's the mercy despots feel ? 



226 GOLDEN POEMS 

Hear it in that battle-peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 
Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! — they 're afire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! From the vale 
On they come! — and will ye quail ? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be 1 

In the God of battles trust ! 
Die we may — and die we must ! 
But, O where can dust to dust 

Be consign' d so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyr'd patriot's bed. 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ? 

John Pierpont. 

THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON 

Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere ! 
Bring all men of Lincoln here ; 
Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle, 
Let Acton, Bedford, hither file — 
Oh, hither file, and plainly see 
Out of a wound leap Liberty. 

Say, Woodman April ! all in green, 
Say, Robin April ! hast thou seen 
In all thy travel round the earth - 
Ever a morn of calmer birth ? 
But morning's eye alone serene 
Can gaze across yon village-green 
To where the trooping British run 
Through Lexington. 

Good men in fustian, stand ye still ; 

The men in red come o'er- the hill. 

Lay down your arms, damned rebels ! cry 

The men in red full haughtily. 

But never a grounding gun is heard. 

The men in fustian stand unstirr'd ; 

Dead calm, save may be a wise bluebird 

Puts in his little heavenly word. 

O men in red 1 if ye but knew 

The half as much as the bluebirds do, 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 227 

Now in this little tender calm 

Each hand would out, and every palm 

With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke f 

Or ere those lines of battle broke. 

O men in red ! if ye but knew 
The least of the all that bluebirds do, 
Now in this little godly calm 
Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm — 
The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes 
Who pardons and is very wise . — 
Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire, 
Fire! 

The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall ; 

The homespuns' anxious voices call. 

Brother, art hurt ? and Where hit, John ? 

And Wipe this blood, and Men, come on I 

And Neighbor, do but lift my head, 

And Who is wounded ? Who is dead ? 

Seven are killed ; my God ! my God ! 

Seven lie dead on the village sod — 

Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown, 

Monroe, and Porter — these are down. 

Nay, look ! stout Harrington not yet dead I 

He crooks his elbow, lifts his head ; 

He lies at the steps of his own house-door ; 

He crawls and makes a path of gore. 

The wife from the window hath seen, and rush'd ; 

He hath reach' d the step, but the blood hath gush'd, 

He hath crawl'd to the step of his own house-door ; 

But his head hath dropp'd : he will crawl no more. 

Clasp, wife, and kiss, and lift the head : 

Harrington lies at his doorstep, dead. 

But, O ye Six that round him lay, 

And bloodied up that April day ! 

As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell 

At the door of the House wherein ye dwell ; 

As Harrington came, ye likewise came. 

And died at the door of your House of Fam.e. 

Sidney Lanier {Psalm of the West). 

HYMN 

[ Sung at the Completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1876.] 

By the rude bridge that arch'd the flood, - 

Their flag to April's breeze unfurl' d. 
Here once the embattled farmers stood. 

And fired the shot heard round the world. 



228 GOLDEN POEMS 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruin'd bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone ; 
That memory may their deed redeem. 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

" Spirit that made those heroes dare 
To die, or leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



ETERNAL SPIRIT OF THE CHAINLESS MIND 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art ; 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom — 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Lord Byron {Prisoner of Chillon). 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

The breaking waves dash'd high 

On a stern and rock -bound coast. 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches toss'd. 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 229 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd — 

This was their welcome home 1 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine 1 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod ; 
They left unstain'd what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

IN STATE 

I 
O Keeper of the Sacred Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end 
will be. 

" Lo, through the wintry atmosphere, 
On the white bosom of the sphere, 
A cluster of five lakes appear ; 
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or sheeted 
bier. ^ 

" And on that vast and hollow field. 
With both lips closed and both eyes seal'd, 
A mighty Figure is revealed, — 
Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in the hollow of 
a shield. 



230 GOLDEN POEMS 

" The winds have tied the drifted snow 
Around the face and chin ; and lo, 
The sceptred Giants come and go, 
And shake their shadowy crowns and say : ' We always fear'd 
it would be so ! ' 

" She came of an heroic race : 
A giant's strength, a maiden's grace, 
Like two in one seem to embrace. 
And match, and blend, and thorough-blend, in her colossal 
form and face. 

" Where can her dazzling falchion be ? 
One hand is fallen in the sea ; 
The Gulf Stream drifts it far and free ; 
And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the depths 
resplendently. 

" And by the other, in its rest, 
The starry banner of the West 
Is clasp' d forever to her breast ; 
And of her silver helmet, lo 1 a soaring eagle is the crest. 

" And on her brow, a soften'd light, 
As of a star conceal' d from sight 
By some thin veil of fleecy white. 
Or of the rising moon behind the rainy vapors of the night. 

" The Sisterhood that was so sweet. 
The Starry System sphered complete. 
Which the mazed Orient used to greet, 
The Four-and-Thirty fallen Stars glimmer and glitter at her 
feet. 

" And over her — and over all, 
For panoply and coronal — 
The mighty Immemorial, 
And everlasting Canopy and Starry Arch and Shield of all. 

II 
" Three cold, bright moons have march' d and wheel' d 
And the white cerement that reveal' d 
A Figure stretch'd upon a Shield, 
Is turned to verdure ; and the land is now one mighty battle- 
field. 

" And lo ! the children which she bred, 
And more than all else cherished. 
To make them true in heart and head. 
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords cross'd 
above the dead. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 231 

" Each hath a mighty stroke and stride : 
One true — the more that he is tried ; 
The other dark and evil-eyed ; — 
And by the hand of one of them, his own dear Mother surely 
died! 

" A stealthy step, a gleam of hell, — 
It is the simple truth to tell, — 
The Son stabb'd and the Mother fell : 
And so she Ues, all mute and pale, and pure and irrepro-ach- 
able ! 

" And then the battle -trumpet blew ; 
And the true brother sprang and drew 
His blade to smite the traitor through ; 
And so they clash' d above the bier, and the Night sweated 
bloody dew. 

" And all their children, far and wide, 
That are so greatly multiplied, 
Rise up in frenzy and divide ; 
And choosing each whom he will serve, unsheath the sword and 
take their side. 

" And in the low sun's bloodshot rays, 
Portentous of the coming days. 
The two great Oceans blush and blaze. 
With the emergent continent between them, wrapt in crimson 
haze. 

" Now whichsoever stand or fall. 
As God is great, and man is small. 
The truth shall triumph over all : 
Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall triumph over all ! 

ni 

" I see the champion sword-strokes flash ; 
I see them fall and hear them clash ; 
I hear the murderous engines crash ; 
I see a brother stoop to loose a foeman-brother's bloody sash. 

" I see the torn and mangled corse. 
The dead and dying heap'd in scores. 
The headless rider by his horse. 
The wounded captive bayoneted through and through without 
remorse. 

" I hear the dying sufferer cry. 
With his crush'd face turn'd to the sky ; 
I see him crawl in agony 
To the foul pool, and bow his head into the bloody slime, and 
die. 



232 GOLDEN POEMS 

" I see the assassin crouch and fire ; 
I see his victim fall — expire ; 
I see the murderer creeping nigher 
To strip the dead. He turns the head — the face ! The son 
beholds his sire 1 

" I hear the curses and the thanks ; 
I see the mad charge on the flanks, 
The rents, the gaps, the broken ranks. 
The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down the river's 
bridgeless banks. 

" I see the death-gripe on the plain. 
The grappling monsters on the main, 
The tens of thousands that are slain. 
And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart and brain. 

" I see the dark and bloody spots. 
The crowded rooms and crowded cots, 
The bleaching bones, the battle blots, — 
And writ on many a nameless grave, a legend of forget-me-nots. 

" I see the gorged prison-den. 
The dead-line and the pent-up pen. 
The thousands quarter'd in the fen, 
The living-deaths of skin and bone that were the goodly shapes 
of men. 

" And still the bloody dew must fall ! 
And His great Darkness with the Pall 
Of His dread Judgment cover all. 
Till the Dead Nation rise transformed by Truth to triumph 
over all ! 

" And last — and last I see — The Deed. " 
Thus saith the Keeper of the Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy. 
And leaves the Pall of His great Darkness over all the Land 
and Sea. 

Byron Forceythe Willson. 

APOCALYPSE * 

Straight to his heart the bullet crush'd ; 
Down from his breast the red blood gush'd, 
And o'er his face a glory rush'd. 

A sudden spasm shook his frame. 
And in his ears there went and came 
A sound as of devouring flame. 

* Private Arthur Ladd, Sixth Mass. Vols., killed in the attack of the Baltimore 
mob upon his regiment, April 19, 1861, was the first life sacrificed to the war. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 233 

Which in a moment ceased, and then 
The great light clasped his brows again, , 
So that they shone like Stephen's when 

Saul stood apart a little space 

And shook with shuddering awe to trace 

God's splendors settling o'er his face. 

Thus, like a king, erect in pride. 

Raising clean hands toward heaven, he cried : 

" All hail the Stars and Stripes ! " and died. 

Died grandly. But before he fell — 
(O blessedness ineffable !) 
Vision apocalyptical 

Was granted to him, and his eyes, 
All radiant with glad surprise. 
Looked forward through the Centuries, 

And saw the seeds which sages cast 
In the world's soil in cycles past. 
Spring up and blossom at the last ; 

Saw how the souls of men had grown. 
And where the scythes of Truth had mown 
Clear space for Liberty's white throne ; 

Saw how, by sorrow tried and proved, 
The blackening stains had been removed 
Forever from the land he loved ; 

Saw Treason crushed and Freedom crowned. 
And clamorous Faction, gagged and bound. 
Gasping its life out on the ground. 

With far-off vision gazing clear 
Beyond this gloomy atmosphere 
Which shuts us in with doubt and fear. 

He — marking how her high increase 
Ran greatening in perpetual lease 
Through balmy years of odorous Peace — 

Greeted in one transcendent cry 

Of intense, passionate ecstasy 

The sight which thrilled him utterly ; 

Saluting with most proud disdain 
Of murder and of mortal pain. 
The vision which shall be again ! 



234 GOLDEN POEMS 

So, lifted with prophetic pride, 

Raised conquering hands toward heaven and cried : 

"All hail the Stars and Stripes ! " and died. 

Richard Realf. 



VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY 

The knightliest of the knightly race 

That, since the days of old. 
Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold ; 
The kindliest of the kindly band 

That, rarely hating ease. 
Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, 

And Raleigh round the seas ; 

Who climbed the blue Virginian hills 

Against embattled foes. 
And planted there, in valleys fair. 

The lily and the rose; 
Whose fragrance lives in many lands. 

Whose beauty stars the earth, 
And Hghts the hearths of happy homes 

With loveliness and worth. 

We thought they slept ! — the sons who kept 

The names of noble sires, 
And slumbered while the darkness crept 

Around their vigil fires ; 
But aye the " Golden Horseshoe " knights 

Their old Dominion keep, 
Whose foes have found enchanted ground. 

But not a knight asleep. 

Francis Orrery Ticknor. 

UNMANIFEST DESTINY 

To what new fates, my country, far 

And unforeseen of foe or friend. 
Beneath what unexpected star, 

Compelled to what unchosen end, 

Across the sea that knows no beach 

The Admiral of Nations guides 
Thy blind obedient keels to reach 

The harbor where thy future rides ! 

The guns that spoke at Lexington 

Knew not that God was planning then 

The trumpet word of Jefferson 
To bugle forth the rights of men. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM 235 

To them that wept and cursed Bull Run, 
What was it but despair and shame ? 

Who saw behind the cloud the sun ? 
Who knew that God was in the flame ? 

Had not defeat upon defeat, 

Disaster on disaster come, 
The slave's emancipated feet 

Had never marched behind the drum. 

There is a Hand that bends our deeds 
To mightier issues than we planned ; 

Each son that triumphs, each that bleeds. 
My country, serves Its dark command. 

I do not know beneath what sky 

Nor on what seas shall be thy fate ; 
I only know it shall be high, 

I only know it shall be great. 

Richard Hovey. 

WE ARE OUR FATHERS' SONS 

We are our fathers' sons : let those who lead us know ! 

'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry 

Came up the tropic wind, " Now help us, for we die ! " 

Then Alabama heard. 

And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho 

Shouted a burning word ; 

Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred. 

And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth. 

East, west, and south, and north. 

Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young 

Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, 

By the unforgotten names of eager boys 

Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung 

With the old mystic joys 

And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on, 

But that the heart of youth is generous, — 

We charge you, ye who lead us, 

Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain ! 

Turn not' their new- world victories to gain ! 

One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays 

Of their dear praise. 

One jot of their pure conquest put to hire. 

The implacable republic will require ; 

With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon, 

Or subtly, coming, as a thief at night, 

But surely, very surely, slow or soon ^ 

That insult deep we deeply will requite. 



236 GOLDEN POEMS 

Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity ! 
For save we let the island men go free, . 
Those baffled and dislaurelled ghosts 
Will curse us from the lamentable coasts 
Where walk the frustrate dead. 
The cup of trembling shall be drained quite, 
Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, 
With ashes of the hearth shall be made white 
Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent ; 
Then on your guiltier head 
Shall our intolerable self -disdain 
Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain ; 
For manifest in that disastrous light 
We shall discern the right 
And do it, tardily. — O ye who lead. 
Take heed ! 

Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite. 

William Vaughn Moody. 
( An Ode in Time of Hesitation. ) 

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And freedom shall awhile repair. 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collests. 



PART VII 



Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote, 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants^ slaves ? — The fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 



PART VII 
BATTLE ECHOES 



FLODDEN FIELD 

" But see ! look up ! ^ on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden as he spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of the hill 
All downward to the banks of Till 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and vast, and rolling far. 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
At times one warning trumpet blown. 

At times a stifled hum. 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 
' King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes. 
Until at weapon-point they close ; 
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust ; 

And such a yell was there, 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 
As if men fought upon the earth, 

, And fiends in upper air ; 
O, life and death were in the shout. 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 

Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw the Lord Marmion's falcon fly : - 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 

239 



240 GOLDEN POEMS 

Still bear them bravely in the fight ; 

Although against them come 
Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan, 

With Huntly, and with Home. 
Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle j 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
And flung the feeble targe aside. 
And with both hands the broadsword plied, 
'T was vain : — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white. 

The Howard's Hon fell ; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle yell. 
The border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, 

The pennon sunk and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale. 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It wavered mid the foes. 

By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
For still the Scots, around their king 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. ^ 
Where 's now their victor vanward wing ? 

Where Huntly, and where Home ? — 
O for a blast of that dread horn, 
On ^Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to King Charles did come. 
When Roland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer, 

Qn Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain. 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

Wliile yet on Flodden side. 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies, 
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies 

Our Caledonian pride ! 

Sir Walter Scott (Marmion), 



BATTLE ECHOES 241 

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

Ye mariners of England 

That guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! — 

For the deck it was their field of fame. 

And ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak. 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



242 GOLDEN POEMS 

WATERLOO 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes Hke a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? No ; 't was but the wind 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined ; 
No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet ; 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar 1 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The Hfe from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If evermore should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or whispering, with white lips, — " The foe 1 They come ! 
they come ! " 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes ; — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
Savage and shrill I But with the breath which fills 



BATTLE ECHOES 243 

Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 



THE UNRETURNING BRAVE 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy yAth nature's tear-drops, as they pass ; 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave ; — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent. 
Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 

Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng. 
Partly because they blend me with his line. 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when showered 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered. 
They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard ! 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Came forth her work of gladness to contrive. 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turned from all she brought, to those she could not bring. 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 



244 GOLDEN POEMS 

HOHENLINDEN 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 

THE BATTLE OF IV RY 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance 
Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land 

of France. 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the 

waters, 



BATTLE ECHOES 245 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, 

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls 

annoy. 
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of 

war; 
Hurrah!, hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre. 

O, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers. 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land, 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; 
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled 

flood. 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, 
To fight for his own holy name and Henry of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, 

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest ; 

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and 

high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to 

wing 
Down all our line in deafening shout, " God save our lord, 

the King ! " 
" And if my standard-bearer fail, as fall full well he may,— 
For never saw I promise' yet of such a bloody fray, — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks 

of war. 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre. " 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul- 

verin ! 
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain. 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies ! upon them with the lance !^ 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white 

crest; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a gmdmg 

star. 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 



246 GOLDEN POEMS 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned 

his rein, 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish Count is slain ; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven 

mail ; 
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 
" Remember St, Bartholomew ! " was passed from man to man. 
But out spake gentle Henry : " No Frenchman is my foe ; 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." 
O, was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war, 
As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? 

Ho, maidens of Vienna ! — ho, matrons of Lucerne ! 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall 

return. 
Ho, Philip ! send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's 

souls. 
Ho, gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be 

bright ! 
Ho, burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night ! 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the 

slave. 
And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. 
Then glory to his holy name from whom all glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

Or Nelson and the North 
Sing the glorious day's renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crown. 
And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 
By each gun the lighted brand. 
In a bold, determined hand. 
And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat. 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : - 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death ; 



BATTLE ECHOES 247 

And the boldest held his breath, 
For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 
O'er the deadly space between. 
"Hearts of oak ! " our captain cried ; when each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 
And the havoc did not slack, 
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back ; — 
Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — 
Then ceased — and all is wail, 
As they strike the shattered sail ; 
Or in conflagration pale 
Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then. 
As he hailed them o'er the wave : 
" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
And we conquer but to save.: — 
So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 
With the crews, at England's feet. 
And make submission meet 
To our king. " 

Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
That gave her wounds repose ; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose, 
As death withdrew his shades from the day. 
While the sun looked smiling bright 
O'er a wide and woeful sight. 
Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, Old England, rise. 

For the tidings of thy might. 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 



248 GOLDEN POEMS 

Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
Once so faithful and so true. 
On the deck of fame that died 
With the gallant good Riou ; 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
While the billow mournful rolls, 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave ! 

Thomas Campbell. 

BORDER SONG 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ! 
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 

Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready, then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory. 

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing ; 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding. 
War-steeds are bounding. 
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order ; 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

Sir Walter Scott {The Monastery). 

THE " REVENGE " — ^ BALLAD OF THE 

FLEET 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay. 
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away: 
" Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three I " 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God, I am no 
coward, 



BATTLE ECHOES 249 

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 
And the half my men are sick ; I must fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty-three ? " 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : "I know you are no 

coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again : 
But I 've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord 

Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." 

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, 

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 

Very carefully and slow. 

Men of Bideford in Devon, 

And we laid them on the ballast down below ; 

For we brought them all aboard. 

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to 

Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, 
And he sail'd away fom Flores till the Spaniard came in sight. 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 
"Shall we fight or shall we fly ? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 

There '11 be little of us left by the time this sun is set." 
And Sir Richard said again : " We be all good Englishmen ; 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil. 
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 

Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh' d, and we roar'd a hurrah, 
and so 

The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe ; 

With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below ; 

For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen. 

And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane be- 
tween. 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and 

laugh'd ; 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 

By their mountain-like San Philip, that, of fifteen hundred tons, 
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of 

guns, 
Took the breath from our sails,and we stay'd. 



250 GOLDEN POEMS 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a 

cloud 
Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 
Four galleons drew away 
From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, 
And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went, 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content ; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand 

to hand. 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his 

ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the 
summer sea. 

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty- 
three. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons 
came. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle thunder 
and flame ; 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead 
and her shame. 

For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could 
fight us no more — 

God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before ? 

For he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 

Though his vessel was all but a wreck ; 

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was 

gone. 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck. 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, 
And he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the 

summer sea. 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in 

a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still 

could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 



BATTLE ECHOES 251 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 

And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 

In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; 

And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark 

and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all 

of it spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when ? 

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner ! sink her ! split her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain ! " 

And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply : 
" We have children, we have wives. 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 

We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. 
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at 

last. 
And they praised him to his face with a courtly foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 
" I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and 

true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: 
With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die ! " 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true. 
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few ; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they knew. 
But they sank his body with honor down into the deep. 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew. 
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from 

sleep. 
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. 
And a wave hke the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and 

their flags, 



252 GOLDEN POEMS 

And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy 

of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW 

Banner of England ! not for a season, O banner of Britain , 

hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when we had rear'd thee on 

high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Luck now — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee 

anew. 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 
Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with 

our lives — 
Women and children among us, God help them, our children 

and wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. 
"Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his 

post ! " 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence, the best of 

the brave : 
Cold were his brows when we kiss'd him, we laid him that night 

in his grave. 
" Every man die at his post ! " and there hail'd on our houses 

and halls 
Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their cannon- 
balls. 
Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight 

barricade, 
Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we 

stoopt to the spade. 
Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often 

there fell 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' it, their shot and 

their shell. 
Death — for their spies were among us, their marksmen were 

told of our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain that could think 

for the rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain 

at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us 

round — 



BATTLE ECHOES 



253 



Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a 
street, 

Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and 
death in the ground ! 

Mine ? yes, a mine ! Countermine ! down, down ! and creep 
thro' the hole ! 

Keep the revolver in hand ! you can hear hiim — the murderous 
mole ! 

Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro' ! 

Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than be- 
fore — 

Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no 
more ; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew ! 

Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced 

on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo'd 

away. 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur, like so many fiends 

in their hell — 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon 

yell — 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. Guard 

the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! storm ! 

and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drown' d by the 

tide — 
So many thousands that if they be bold enough who shall 

escape ? 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers 

and men ! 
Ready! take aim at their leaders — their masses are gapp'd 

with our grape — 
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging for- 
ward again, 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the handful they could not 

subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 
Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and 

limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, 

to endure. 
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on 

him; 



254 GOLDEN POEMS 

Still — could we watch at all points ? We were every day fewer 

and fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past : 
"Children and wives — if the tigers leap into the fold un- 
awares — 
Every man die at his post — and the foe may outlive us at 

last — 
Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into 

theirs ! " . 

Roar upon roar, in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. 
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be 

as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are yoiu: flank fusi- 

lades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which 

they had clung. 
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with 

hand-grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 

blew. 

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out- 
tore 

Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or 
more. 

Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the 
sun — 

One has leapt upon the breach, crying out : " Follow me, follow 
mel" — 

Mark him — he falls ! then another, and him too, and down goes 
he. 

Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors 
had won ? 

Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure ! make way 
for the gun ! 

Now double-charge it with grape ! It is charged and we fire, 
and they run. 

Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his 
due ! 

Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faith- 
ful and few, 

Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote 
them, and slew, 

That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. 

Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can 

fight ! 
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro' the night — 



BATTLE ECHOES 255 

Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms, 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and sound- 
ings to arms ; 
Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five, 
Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, 
Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes 

round, . , • 1 j 

Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid m the ground ; 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, 
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies, 
Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field, 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal'd, 
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife,— 
Torture and trouble in vain — for it never could save us a 

life ; . , t, ^ 

Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, 
Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, 
Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief, 
Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, 
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd for all that we 

knew — . 

Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still 

shatter' d walls, 
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls — 
But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 

Hark ! cannonade, fusilade 1 is it true what was told by the 

scout — 1 1, f 11 

Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the tell 

mutineers ? 
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears ! 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, 
Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering 

cheers 
Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come 

Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusil- 

eers 
Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the Highlander wet with 

their tears ! j • • :> 

Dance to the pibroch ! — saved 1 we are saved ! — is it you ^ 

is it you ? , , , • r 

Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of 

Heaven ! ■• 

"Hold it for fifteen days ! " we have held it for eighty-seven ! 
And ever aloft over the palace roof the old banner of England 

blew. ^ 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



256 GOLDEN POEMS 

SONG OF THE CAMP 

" Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff. 
Lay grim and threatening under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will .bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side. 
Below the smoking cannon : 

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory : 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Rose hke an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset's embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters. 

With scream of shot, and bm:st of shell. 
And bellowing of the mortars. 

And Irish Norah's eyes are dim 
For a singer dumb and gory ; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of " Annie Laurie. " 



BATTLE ECHOES 257 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing : 
The bravest are the tenderest — 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM 

In their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot ! 
When the files 
Of the isles, 
From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the 
rampant 

Unicorn, 
And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drum- 
mer, 

Through the morn ! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires ; 
And the balls whistled deadly, 
And in streams flashing redly 

Blazed the fires ; 

As the roar 

On the shore, 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres 

Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, 

Cracking amain ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoneers ; 
And the " villainous saltpetre " 
Rung a fierce, discordant metre 
Round their ears ; 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse guards' clangor 

On our flanks ; 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire 
Through the ranks ! 



258 GOLDEN POEMS 

Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And his broad sword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet loud. 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 
And rounder rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, 
Hurling death ! 

Guy Humphrey McMaster. 

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath 

are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword : 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; 
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and 

damps ; 
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps : 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall 

deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call re- 
treat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat ; 
O, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me ; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 

MY MARYLAND 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 



BATTLE ECHOES 259 

Avenge the patriotic gore 

That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 

And be the battle queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland! 
For life or death, for woe or weal. 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous Hmbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! 't is the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied apay, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
" Sic semper I" 't is the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with Liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song. 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 



26o GOLDEN POEMS 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll. 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder-hum ! 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum — 
She breaths ! She burns ! She '11 come ! She '11 come ! 
"^ Maryland, my Maryland ! 

James R. Randall. 



STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY 

Come, cheerily, men, pile on the rails, 

And stir the camp-fires bright ! 
No matter if the canteen fails, 

We '11 have a roaring night ! 
Here Shenandoah brawls along, 
There burly Blue-Ridge echoes strong. 
To swell the brigade's rousing song 

Of Stonewall Jackson's way ! 

We see him now — his old slouched hat 

Cocked o'er his eye askew, 
His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat, 

So firm, so bold, so true ; 
The blue-light Elder knows 'em well, 
Says he, " That 's Banks — he 's fond of shell ! 
Lord save his soul — we '11 give him Hell ! " 

That 's Stonewall Jackson 's way ! 

Silence ! Ground arms ! Kneel all ! Hats off ! 
Old Stonewall 's going to pray ! 



BATTLE ECHOES 261 

Strangle the fool that dares to scoff ! 

Attention ! 'T is his way ! 
Kneeling upon his native sod 
In forma pauperis to God — 
*' Stretch forth thine arm ! Lay bare thy rod ! 

Amen ! " That 's Stonewall's way ! 

He 's in the saddle now — " Fall in ! 

Steady, the whole brigade ! 
Hill's at the Ford, cut off ! We '11 win 

His way out, ball or blade ! 
No matter if our shoes be worn. 
No matter if our feet be torn, — 
Quick step ! We '11 with him before mom, 

In Stonewall Jackson's way !" 

The sun's bright lances rout the mists 

Of morning, and, by George ! — 
There 's Longstreet struggling in the lists, 

Hemmed by an ugly gorge ; 
"Pope and his Yankees, whipped before ! 
Bayonets and grape ! " hear Stonewall roar ; 
" Charge, Ashby ! Pay off Stuart's score, 

In Stonewall Jackson's way ! " 

Ah, woman ! wait, and watch, and yearn 

For news of Stonewall's band ! 
Ah, widow ! read with eyes that burn 

That ring upon thy hand ! 
Ah, maiden ! weep on, hope on, pray on ! 
Thy lot is not so all forlorn — 
The foe had better ne'er been born 

That gets in Stonewall's way ! ■ 



J. W. Palmer. 



CIVIL WAR 



" Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette , 

Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 
That shines on his breast like an amulet ! " 

" Ah, Captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead ! 

There 's music around when my barrel 's in tune ! " 
Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped. 

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. 

" Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch 
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood ■ 



262 GOLDEN POEMS 

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud. " 

"O Captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track, 
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette; 

For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, 
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. 

"But I snatched ofif the trinket — this locket of gold ; 

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold. 

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

"Ha ! Rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 't is she, 
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon 

Was her husband — Hush ! soldier, 't was Heaven's decree-, 
We must bury him here, by the light of the moon ! 

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite ; 

War is a virtue — weakness a sin ; 
There 's lurking and loping around us to-night ; 

Load again. Rifleman, keep your hand in !" 

Charles Dawson Shanly. 



OLD SOLDIERS TRUE 

Old soldiers true, ah, them all men can trust, ^ 
Who fought, with conscience clear, on either side; 
Who bearded Death and thought their cause was just; 
Their stainless honor cannot be denied; 
All patriots they beyond the farthest doubt; 
Ring it and sing it up and down the land, 
And let no voice dare answer it with sneers, 

Or shut its meaning out; 
Ring it and sing it, we go hand in hand, 
Old infantry, old cavalry, old cannoneers. 

And if Virginia's vales shall ring again 

To battle yell of Mosby or Mahone, 

If Wilder's wild brigade or Morgan's men 

Once more wheel into line; or all alone 

A Sheridan shall ride, a Cleburne fall, — 

There will not be two flags above them flying, 

But both in one, welded in that pure flame 

Upflaring in us all. 
When kindred unto kindred, loudly crying, 
Rally and cheer in freedom's holy name! 

Maurice Thompson {Lincoln's Grave)' 



BATTLE ECHOES 263 

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the village with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer. 
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O 'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din. 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war drums made of serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers ' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder. 

The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises. 

With such accursed instruments as these, 
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices. 

And j arrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror. 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error. 
There were no need of arsenals or forts. 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! - 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain ! 



264 GOLDEN POEMS 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And Hke a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! " 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



PART VIII 



Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, 
And merrily hent the stile-a : 

A merry heart goes all the day. 
Your sad heart tires in a mile-a. 



PART VIII 
HUMOR 



LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS 

I LATELY lived in quiet ease, 

An' never wished to marry, O ! 
But when I saw my Peggy's face, 

I felt a sad quandary, O ! 
Though wild as ony Athol deer. 

She has trepanned me fairly, O ! 
Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear 
Torment me late an' early, O ! 
O, love, love, love ! 

Love is like a dizziness ; 
It winna let a poor body 
Gang about his biziness ! 

To tell my feats this single week 

Wad mak a daft-like diary, O ! 
I drave my cart out ower a dike, 

My horses in a miry, O ! 
I wear my stockings white an' blue, 

My love 's sae fierce an' fiery O ! 
I drill the land that I should plough, 

An' plough the drills entirely, O ! 
O, love, love, love ! etc. 

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, 

I rase to theek the stable, O ! 
I cuist my coat, an' plied away 

As fast as I was able, O ! 
I wrought that morning out an' out, 

As I 'd been redding fire, O ! 
When I had done an' looked about, 

Gudefaith, it was the byre, O ! 
O, love, love, love ! etc. 

Her wily glance I '11 ne'er forget. 

The dear, the lovely blinkin o't 
Has pierced me through an' through the heart. 

An' plagues me wi' the prinkhng o't. 
267 



268 GOLDEN POEMS 

I tried to sing, I tried to pray, 

I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o 't, 

I tried wi' sport to drive 't away. 
But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o 't. 
O, love, love, love ! etc. 

Nae man can tell what pains I prove, 

Or how severe my pliskie, O ! 
I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love 

Than ever I was wi' whiskey, O ! 
For love has raked me fore an' aft, 

I scarce can lift a leggie, O ! 
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, 

An' soon I '11 dee for Peggy, O ! 

O, love, love, love ! 

Love is like a dizziness ; 
It winna let a poor body 

Gang about his biziness ! 



GLUGGITY GLUG 



James Hogg. 



A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store. 

And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; 
He mounted his horse in the night at the door, 

And sat with his face to the crupper. 
" Some rogue, " quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, 

Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, 
Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, 

While I was engaged at the bottle. 
Which went gluggity, gluggity — glug — glug — glug. " 

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 

'T was the friar's rgad home, straight and level ; 
But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail. 

So he scampered due north like a devil. 
" This new mode of docking, " the friar then said, 

" I perceive does n't make a horse trot ill ; 
And 't is cheap, for he never can eat off his head. 

While I am engaged at the bottle. 
Which goes gluggity, gluggity — glug — gfug — glug. " 

The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got. 
He was rather for drinking than grazing ; 

Quoth the friar, " 'T is strange headless horses should trot, 
But to drink with their tails is amazing ! " 

Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, 
In the pond fell this son of a pottle ; 



HUMOR 269 

Quoth he, " The head's found, for I'm under his nose — 

I wish I were over a bottle, ^^ 

Which goes gluggity, gluggity — glug — glug — glug. 

George Colman. 



RORY O'MORE 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn,— 

He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn ; 

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please. 

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 

" Now Rory, be aisy 1 " sweet Kathleen would cry, 

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,— 

" With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I m about ; 

Faith 1 you 've tazed till I 've put on my cloak mside out. 

" Och ! jewel, " says Rory, " that same is the way 

Ye 've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 

And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 

For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O More. 

" Indeed, then, " says Kathleen, " don't think of the like, 

For I half gave a promise to soothermg Mike : ^^ 

The ground that I walk on he loves, I '11 be bound — 

" Faith ! " says Rory, " I 'd rather love you than the ground. 

" Now, Rory, I '11 cry if you don't let me go ; ^^ 

Sure I dream every night that I 'm hatmg you so ! 

" Och 1 " says Rory, " that same I 'm delighted to hear. 

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. 

So, iewel, kape dhraming that same till ye die, 

And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie 1 

And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ^ 

Since 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O More. 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you 've t^zed me enough ; 
Sure I 've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff ; 
And I 've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste. 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.' 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, _ 
And he kissed her sweet hps,- don't you think he was right? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir, -you '11 hug me no more, - 
That 's eight times to-day that you 've kissed me before. 
•' Then here goes another, " says he, " to make sure 1 
For there 's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O More. 

Samuel Lover. 



270 GOLDEN POEMS 

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD 

I CANNOT eat but little meat, 

My stomach is not good ; 
But sure I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I am nothing a-cold ; 
I stuff my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 

Back and side go bare, go bare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But belly, God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether it be new or old. 

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 

And a crab laid in the fire ; 
A little bread shall do me stead, 

Much bread I do not desire. 
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if I wold, 
I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt. 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, etc. 

And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek ; 
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see 

The tears run down her cheek. 
Then doth she troll to me the bowl. 

Even as a malt-worm shold ; 
And saith, Sweetheart, I take my part. 

Of this jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, etc. 

Now let them drink till they nod and wink. 

Even as good fellows should do ; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to : 
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls. 

Or have them lustily trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives. 

Whether they be young or old. 

Back and side go bare, go bare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But belly, God send thee good ale enough. 

Whether it be new or old. 

John Still. 



HUMOR 271 

LITTLE BILLEE 

There were three sailors of Bristol City 

Who took a boat and went to sea ; 
But iirst with beef and captain's biscuits 

And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, 

And the youngest he was little Billee ; 
Now when they 'd got as far as the Equator) 

They 'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

" I am extremely hungaree. " 
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 

" We 've nothing left, us must eat we. " 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
" With one another we should n't agree ! 

There 's little Bill, he 's young and tender, 
We 're old and tough, so let 's eat he." 

" O Billy ! we 're going to kill and eat you, 

So undo the button of your chemie." 
When Bill received this information. 

He used his pocket-handkerchie. 

" First let me say my catechism 

Which my poor mammy taught me. " 
" Make haste ! make haste ! " says guzzling Jimmy, 

While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 

Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, 

And down he fell on his bended knee ; 
He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment, 

When up he jumps — " There 's land I see 1 

"Jerusalem and Madagascar 

And North and South Amerikee ; 
There 's the British flag a riding at anchor, 

With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, 
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee ; 

But as for little Bill he made him 
The Captain of a Seventy-three. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

A CARMAN'S ACCOUNT OF A LAWSUIT 

Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals, 
And he her drounit into the quarry holes ; 
And I ran to the consistory, for to pleinyie, 



272 GOLDEN POEMS 

And there I happenit amang ane greedie meinyie. 

They gave me first ane thing they call citandum, 

Within aucht days I gat but libellandum ; 

Within ane month I gat ad opponendum ; 

In half ane year I gat inter -loquendum ; 

And syne I gat — how call ye it ? — ad replicandum ; 

Bot I could never ane word yet understand him ; 

And then they gart me cast out mony placks, 

And gart me pay for four-and-twenty acts. 

Bot or they came half gate to concludendum, 

The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him. ^ 

Thus they postponed me twa year with their train, 

Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again ; 

And then thir rooks they rowpit wonder fast 

For sentence, silver, they cryit at the last. 

Of pronunciandum they made we wonder fain, 

Bot I gat never my gude grey mare again. 

Sir David Lyndsay. 



THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN 

They 've got a bran new organ, Sue, 

For all their fuss and search ; 
They 've done just as they said they 'd do, 

And fetched it into church. 
They 're bound the critter shall be seen. 

And on the preacher's right 
They 've hoisted up their new machine 

In everybody's sight. 
They 've got a chorister and choir, 

Ag'in my voice and vote ; ^ 
For it was never my desire 

To praise the Lord by note ! 

I 've been a sister good an' true, 

For five an' thirty year ; 
I 've done what seemed my part to do. 

An' prayed my duty clear ; 
I 've sung the hymns both slow and quick, 

Just as the preacher read ; 
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, 

I took the fork an' led ! 
An ' now, their bold, new-fangled ways 

Is comin ' all about ; 
And I, right in my latter days. 

Am fairly crowded out ! 

To-day, the preacher, good old dear. 
With tears all in his eyes, 



HUMOR 273 

Read — *' I can read my title clear , 

To mansions in the skies. " 
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn — 

I s'pose I al'ays will ; 
It somehow gratifies my whim, 

In good old Ortonville ; 
But when that choir got up to sing, 

I couldn 't catch a word ; 
They sung the most dog-gonedest thing 

A body ever heard ! 

Some worldly chaps was standin' near 

An' when I see them grin, 
I bid farewell to every fear. 

And boldly waded in. 
I thought I 'd chase the tune along, 

An ' tried with all my might ; 
But though my voice is good an' strong, 

I couldn't steer it right. 
When they was high, then I was low, 

An' also contra 'wise ; 
And I too fast, or they too slow, 

To " mansions in the skies. " 

An' after every verse, you know, 

They played a little tune ; 
I did n 't understand, and so 

I started in too soon. 
I pitched it purty middlin' high 

And fetched a lusty tone, 
But O, alas ! I found that I 

Was singin ' there alone ! 
They laughed a little, I am told ; 

But I had done my best ; 
And not a wave of trouble rolled 

Across my peaceful breast. 

And Sister Brown — I could but look, 

She sits right front of me — 
She never was no singin ' book. 

An' never went to be ; 
But then she al'ays tried to do 

The best she could, she said ; 
She understood the time, right through, 

An' kep' it with her head ; 
But when she tried this mornin', O, 

I had to laugh, or cough ! 
It kep' her head a bobbin' so, 

It e'en a 'most come off I 



274 GOLDEN POEMS 

An' Deacon Tubbs, he all broke down, 

As one might well suppose ; 
He took one look at Sister Brown, 

And meekly scratched his nose. 
He looked his hymn-book through and through, 

And laid it on the seat, 
And then a pensive sigh he drew, 

And looked completely beat. 
An ' when they took another bout. 

He didn 't even rise ; 
But drawed his red bandanner out. 

An' wiped his weeping eyes. 

I 've been a sister, good an' true. 

For five an' thirty year ; 
I 've done what seemed my part to do, 

An' prayed my duty clear ; 
But death will stop my voice, I know. 

For he is on my track ; 
And some day, I '11 to meetin' go. 

And nevermore come back. 
And when the folks get up to sing — 

Whene'er that time shall be — 
I do not want no patent thing 

A squealin' over me ! 

Will M. Caeleton. 



HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

Dey had biano-blayin ; 
I felled in lofe mit a Merican Frau, 

Her name was Madilda Yane. 
She had haar as prown ash a pretzel. 

Her eyes vas himmel-blue, 
Und ven dey looket indo mine 

Dey shplit mine heart in two. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I vent dere you '11 pe pound ; 
I valtzet mit Madilda Yane 

Und vent shpinnen round und round. 
De pootiest Fraulein in de House, 

She vayed dwo hoondred pound, 
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp 

She make de vindows sound. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 
I dells you it cost him dear ; 



HUMOR 275 

Dey rolled in more as sefen kecks 

Of foost-rate Lager Beer. 
Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in 

De Deutschers gifes a cheer ; 
I dinks dat so vine a barty 

Ne/er coom to a het dis year. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty ; 

Dere all vas Souse und Brouse. 
Ven de sooper corned in, de gompany 

Did make demselfs to house ; 
Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, 

De Bratwurst und Braten fine, 
Und vash der Abendessen down 

Mit four parrels of Neckarwein. 

Hans Breitmann give a barty ; 

We all cot troonk ash bigs. 
I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier, 

Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. 
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane 

Und she shlog me on de kop, 
Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks 

Dill de coonshtable made 00s shtop. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty — 

Where ish dat barty now? 
Where ish de lofely golden cloud 

Dat float on de moundain's prow? 
Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern — 

De shtar of de shpirit's Hght ? 
All goned afay mit de Lager Beer — 

Afay in de Ewigkeit ! 

Charles G. Leland. 



THE PLAIDIE 

Upon ane stormy Sunday, 
Coming adoon the lane. 

Were a score of bonnie lassies — 
And the sweetest, I maintain, 
Was Caddie, 

That I took unneath my plaidie, 
To shield her from the rain. 

She said the daisies blushed 
For the kiss that I had ta'en ; 

I wadna hae thought the lassie 
Wad sae of a kiss complain ; 



276 GOLDENPOEMS 

" Now, laddie ! 
I winna stay under your plaidie, 
If I gang hame in the rain ! " 

But, on an after Sunday, 

When cloud there was not ane, 
This self-same winsome lassie 
(We chanced to meet in the lane) 
Said, " Laddie, 
Why dinna ye wear your plaidie ? 
Wha kens but it may rain ? " 

Charles Sibley. 

BITE BIGGER 
[Yorkshire Ballad.] 
As AW hurried throo th' toan to mi wark, 

(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had go an), 
Aw happen to hear a remark 

At ud fotch tears throo th' heart of a stoan ; 
It wur raanin, an' snowin, an' cowd. 

An' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck. 
An' th' east wind boath whistled and howled, 

It soanded like nowt but ill-luck ; 
When two little lads, doun'd i' rags, 

Baght stockings or shoes o' ther feet, 
Coom trapesin away o'er th' flags, 

Booath on em soddened wi' th' weet. 
Th' owdest wud happen be ten, 

Th' yungen be hauf on 't — hoa mooar; 
As aw luked on, aw sed to mysen, 

God help fowk this weather 'at 's poor ! 
Th' big en sawed summut off the graand, 

An' aw luked just to see what 't could be ; 
'T wur a few wizened flaars he 'd faand. 

An' they seemed to ha' filled him wi' glee, 
An' he said, "Come on, Billy, may be 

We shall find summut else by an' by, 
An' if net, tha mun share these w' me 

When we get to some spot where its dry." 
Leet-hearted they trotted away. 

An' aw followed, coss twur in mi roaad, 
But aw thowt aw 'd neer seen such a day — 

It wurn't fit to be aght for a tooad. 
Sooin th' big en agean slipt away, 

An' sawed summut else aght o' th' muck, 
An' he cried aght, " Luk here. Bill ! to-day 

Aren't we blessed wi' a seet o' goord luck? 
Here 's a apple, an' th' mooast on it 's saand ; 

What 's rotten aw '11 throw in th' street — 



HUMOR 277 

Worn't it gooid to lig thear to be faand ? 

Nah booath on us con hav a treat." 
Soa he wiped it, an' rubbed it, an' then 

Sed, " Billy, thee bite off a bit ; 
If tha hasn't been lucky thisen 

Tha shall share wi' me sich as aw get." 
Soa th' little en bate off a touch ; 

T' other's face beamed wi' pleasure awl throo, 
An' he sed, " Nay, tha hasn't taen much, 

Bite agean, an ' bite bigger; nah, do I " 
Aw waited to hear nowt no mooar, — 

Thinks aw, thear 's a lesson for me ! 
Tha's a heart i' thy breast, if tha 'rt poor ; 

Th' world wur richer wi' mooar sich as thee ! 
Tuppince wur all th' brass aw had. 

An' awd ment it fur aale when coom nooin, 
But aw thowt aw '11 goa gie it yond lad. 

He desarves it fur what he 's been dooin ; 
Soa aw sed, " Lad, hera 's tuppince fur thee. 

For thysen ; " an' they stared like two geese, 
But he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, 

" Nah, it '11 just be a penny apiece." 
" God bless thee ! do just as tha will. 

An ' may better days speedily come ; 
Tho' clamed an' hauf donned, mi lad, still 

Tha 'rt a deal nearer heaven nur some ! " 

Anonymous. 



POPPING CORN 

And there they sat, a-popping corn, 
John Styles and Susan Cutter ■ — 
John Styles as fat as any ox, 
^ And Susan fat as butter. 

And there they sat and shelled the corn, 

And raked and stirred the fire. 
And talked of different kinds of corn. 

And hitched their chairs up nigher. 

Then Susan she the popper shook, 
Then John he shook the popper. 

Till both their faces grew as red 
As saucepans made of copper. 

And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, 

All kinds of fun a-poking, 
While he haw-hawed at her remarks. 

And she laughed at his joking. 



278 GOLDEN POEMS 

And still they popped, and still they ate — - 

John's mouth was like a hopper — 
And stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt. 

And shook and shook the popper. 

The clock struck nine — the clock struck ten, 

And still the corn kept popping ; 
It struck eleven, and then struck twelve, 

And still no signs of stopping. 

And John he ate, and Sue she thought — 

The corn did pop and patter — 
Till John cried out, " The corn 's a-fire ! 

Why, Susan, what 's the matter ?" 

Said she, " John Styles, it 's one o'clock ; 

You '11 die of indigestion ; 
I 'm sick of all this popping corn, 

Why don't you pop the question ?" 

Anonymous. 



A HOUSEKEEPER'S TRAGEDY 

One day as I wandered, I heard a complaining. 
And saw a poor woman, the picture of gloom ; 

She glared at the mud on her doorsteps ('t was raining), 
And this was her wail as she wielded the broom : 

" O, life is a toil, and love is a trouble, 
And beauty will fade, and riches will flee ; 

And pleasures they dwindle, and prices they double, 
And nothing is what I could wish it to be. 

"There 's too much of worriment goes to a bonnet ; 

There 's too much of ironing goes to a shirt ; 
There 's nothing that pays for the time you waste on it ; 

There 's nothing that lasts but trouble and dirt. 

" In March it is mud ; it 's slush in December ; 

The midsummer breezes are loaded with dust; 
In fall, the leaves litter ; in muggy September 

The wall-paper rots, and the candlesticks rust. 

"There are worms in the cherries, and slugs in the roses, 
And ants in the sugar, and mice in the pies ; 

The rubbish of spiders no mortal supposes. 
And ravaging roaches and damaging flies. 

''It 's sweeping at six, and dusting at seven ; 

It 's victuals at eight, and dishes at nine ; 
It 's potting and panning from ten to eleven ; 

We scarce break our fast ere we plan how to dine. 



HUMOR 

*' With grease and with grime, from corner to centre, 

Forever at war, and forever alert. 
No rest for a day, lest the enemy enter — 

I spend my v/hole life in a struggle with dirt. 

" Last night, in my dreams, I was stationed forever 
On a bare little isle in the midst of the sea ; 

My one chance of life was a ceaseless endeavor 
To sweep off the waves ere they swept over me. 

"Alas, 't was no dream ! Again I behold it ! 

I yield ; I am helpless my fate to avert ! " 
She rolled down her sleeves, her apron she folded. 

Then laid down and died, and was buried in dirt. 

Anonymous. 



THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION 

One night came on a hurricane. 

The sea was mountains rolling, 
When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 

And said to Billy Bowling : 
''A strong nor-wester 's blowing. Bill ; 

Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? 
Lord help 'em, how I pities all 

Unhappy folks on shore now ! 

" Foolhardy chaps who live in town. 

What danger they are all in. 
And now are quaking in their beds 

For fear the roof should fall in : 
Poor creatures, how they envies us, 

And wishes, I 've a notion. 
For our good luck, in such a storm, 

To be upon the ocean. 

" But as for them who 're out all day, 

On business from their houses. 
And late at night are coming home. 

To cheer the babes and spouses ; 
While you and I, Bill, on the deck. 

Are comfortably lying. 
My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots 

About their heads are flying ! 

" Arid very often have we heard 

How men are killed and undone, 

By overturns of carriages. 

By thieves and fires in London. 



279 



28o GOLDENPOEMS 

We know what risks all landsmen run, 

From noblemen to tailors ; 
Then Bill, let us thank Providence 

That you and I are sailors ! " 

Charles Dibdin. 



THE LOVERS 

Sally Salter, she was a young teacher who taught, 

And her friend, Charley Church, was a preacher who praught, 

Though his enemies called him a screecher who scraught. 

His heart, when he saw her, kept sinking and sunk, 
And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk ; 
While she, in her turn, kept thinking and thunk. 

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed. 
For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, 
And what he was longing to do then he doed. 

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, 

To seek with his Hps what his heart long had soke ; 

So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke. 

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode ; 

They so sweetly did glide that they both thought they glode, 

And they came to the place to be tied, and were toed. 

Then homeward, he said, let us drive, and they drove. 
And as soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove. 
For whatever he couldn't contrive, she controve. 

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole ; 

At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole ; 

And he said, " I feel better than ever I fole. " 

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung, 
While Time his swift circuit was winging and wung ; 
And this was the thing he was bringing and brung : 

The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught ; 

That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught ; 

Was the one she now liked to scratch, and she scraught. 

And Charley's warm love began freezing, and froze. 

While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze 

The girl he had wished to be squeezing and squoze. 

" Wretch ! " he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and 

left, 
"How could you deceive me, as you have deceft ? " 
And she answered, " I promised to cleave, and I 've cleft. " 

Phcebe Cary. 



HUMOR 281 

THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER 

Many a long, long year ago, • 

Nantucket skippers had a plan 
Of finding out, though "lying low, " 

How near New York their schooners ran. 

They greased the lead before it fell, 

And then by sounding, through the night, 

Knowing the soil that stuck so well, 
They always guessed their reckoning right. 

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim. 

Could tell, by tasting, just the spot ; 
And so below he 'd " douse the glim, " — 

After, of course, his " something hot. " 

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock. 

This ancient skipper might be found ; 
No matter how his craft would rock. 

He slept, — for skippers' naps are sound. 

The watch on deck would now and then 
Run down and wake him, with the lead, 

He 'd up, and taste, and tell the men 
How many miles they went ahead. 

One night 't was Jotham Harden 's watch, 

A curious wag — the pedler's son ; 
And so he mused (the wanton wretch !) 

" To-night I'll have a grain of fun. 

" We ■'re all a set of stupid fools. 

To think the skipper knows, by tasting. 
What ground he 's on ; Nantucket schools 

Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting !" 

And so he took the well-greased lead, 

And rubbed it o'er a box of earth 
That stood on deck — a *parsnip-bed, — 

And then he sought the skipper's berth. 

" Where are we now, sir ? Please to taste. " 
The skipper yawned, put out his tongue. 

Opened his eyes in wondrous haste. 
And then upon the floor he sprung ! 

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair. 

Hauled on his boots, and roared to Marden — 

"Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are 
Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!" 

James Thomas Fields. 



282 GOLDEN POEMS 

JOHN DAVIDSON 

John Davidson and Tib his wife 

Sat toastin' their taes ae night, 
When somethin' started on the fluir 

An' bhnkM by their sight. 

" Guidwife ! " quo' John, " did ye see that mouse ? 

Whar sorra was the cat ? " 
"A mouse ?" "Ay, a mouse." — "Na, na, Guidman, 

It wasna a mouse, 't was a rat." 

" Oh, oh ! Guidwife, to think ye 've been 

Sae lang about the house 
An' no to ken a mouse frae a rat ! 

Yon wasna a rat, but a mouse ! " 

" I 've seen mair mice than you, Guidman, 

An' what think ye o' that ? 
Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair — 

I tell ye 't was a rat." 

" Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife ! 

I '11 be maister o ' the house — 
I saw it as plain as een could see, 

An' I tell ye 't was a mouse ! " 

"If you 're the maister o' the house, 

It 's I 'm the mistress o' 't ; 
An' I ken best what 's i' the house — 

Sae I tell ye 't was a rat." 

"Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak the brose, 

An' ca' it what ye please." 
Sae up she gat an ' made the brose, 

While John sat toastin' his taes. 

They suppit, an' suppit, an' suppit the brose. 

An' aye their hps played smack ; 
They suppit, an' suppit, an' suppit the brose 

Till their lugs began to crack. 

" Sic fules we were to fa ' out, Guidwife, 

About a mouse. " — "A what ? 
It 's a lee you tell, an' I say again 

It was na a mouse, 't was a rat." 

"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? 

My faith, but ye craw crouse ! — 
I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't, — 

'T was a mouse. " — " 'T was a rat. " — " 'T was a mouse. 

Wi' that she struck him o'er the pow : 
"Ye dour auld doit, tak' that ! 



HUMOR 283 

Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph ! 

'T was a rat. " '' 'T was a mouse ! " " 'T was a rat ! " 

She sent the brose-cup at his heels 

As he hirpled ben the house ; 
But he shoved out his head as he steekit the door, 

An' cried, " 'T was a mouse, 't was a mouse ! " 

Yet when the auld carle fell asleep. 

She paid him back for that. 
An' roared into his sleepin' lug, 

" 'T was a rat, 't was a rat, 't was a rat ! " 

The deil be wi' me, if I think 

It was a beast at all ; 
Next mornin' when she swept the floor, 

She found wee Johnnie's ball. 

Anonymous. 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song ; 
And if you find it wondrous short, 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man 

Of whom the world might say. 
That still a godly race he ran. 

Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes : 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 

The wondering neighbors ran. 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
To every Christian eye ; 



284 GOLDEN POEMS 

And while they swore the dog was mad, 
They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That showed the rogues they lied • 
The man recovered of the bite ; 

The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE POWER OF PRAYER 
[The First Steamboat up the Alabama.] 

You, Dinah ! Come and set me whar de ribber-roads does 

meet. 
De Lord, He made dese black-jack roots to twis' into a seat. 
Umph, dar! De Lord have mussy on dis blin' ole nigger's 

feet. 

It pear to me dis mornin' I kin smell de fust o' June, 

I 'clar, I b'lieve dat mockin'-bird could play de fiddle soon 1 

Dem yonder town-bells sounds like dey was ringin' in de moon. 

Well, ef dis nigger is been blin' for fo'ty year or mo', 

Dese ears dey sees de world, like th'u'de cracks dat's in de do' ; 

For de Lord has built dis cabin wid de winders hind and 'fo'. 

I know my front ones is stopped up, and things is sort o' dim ; 
But den, th'u' dem temptations vain won't leak in on ole Jim^ ! 
De back ones shows me earth enough, aldo' dey 's mons'ous 
slim. 

And as for Hebben — bless de Lord, and praise His holy name ! 
Dat shines in all de co'ners o' dis cabin jes' de same 
As ef dat cabin had n't nar a plank upon de frame ! 

Who call me? Listen down the ribber, Dinah! Don't you 

hyar 
Somebody holl'in' "Hoo, Jim, hoo?^^ My Sarah died las' 

y'ar; 
Is dat black angel done come back to call ole Jim from hyar ? 

My stars ! dat can't be Sarah — shuh, jes' listen, Dinah, now/ 
What kin be comin' up dat bend, a-makin' sich a row ? 
Fus' bellerin', like a pawin' bull, den squealin' like a sow ! 

De Lord 'a' massy sakes alive! jes 'hear — Ker-wooj I Ker- 

wooj ! 
De Debbie's comin' round dat bend — he 's comin', shuh 

enuff, 
A-splashin ' up de water wid his tail and wid his hoof ! 

I 'se pow'ful skeered; but neversomeless I ain't gwine run 
away ; 



HUMOR 285 

I 'm gwine to stan' stiff -legged for de Lord dis blessed day ; 
You screech, and howl, and swish de water, Satan ! Let us 
pray: 

hebbenly Mahs'r, what Thou wiliest dat mus' be jes^ so, 
And ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some niggers boun' to go. 
Den, Lord, please take ole Jim, and lej young Dinah hyar below I 

Scuse Dinah, souse her, Mahs'r; for she 's sich a little child. 
She hardly jes ' begin to scramble up the home-yard stile ; 
But dis old traveller's feet been tired dis many a many mile. 

1 'se wufiess as de rotten pole 0' las' year's fodder-stack ; 

De rheumatiz done bit my bones : you hyar 'em crack and crack ? 
I can't sit down 'd out gruntin' like 't was breakin' 0' my back. 

What use de wheel when hub and spokes is warped and split 

and rotten? 
What use dis dried up cotton-stalk when Life done picked my 

cotton ? 
I 'se like a word, dat somebody done said, and den forgotten. 

But Dinah 1 Shuh ! dat gal jes ' like dis little hick 'ry-tree, 
De sap 's jis risin' in her ; she do grow owdaciouslee — 
Lord, ef you's clarin' de underbrush, don't cut her down — 
cut me! 

I would not proud presume — but yet I 'II boldly make reques', 
Sence Jacob had dat wastlin ' match, I, too, gwine do my bes ' ; 
When Jacob got all under hoU, de Lord He answered, Yes ! 

And what for waste de wittles now, and th'ow away de bread ? 
Jes ' for to strength dese idle hands to scratch dis ole bald head ? 
Tink of de 'conomy, Mahs 'r, ef dis ole Jim was dead I 

Stop ; ef I don 't believe de Debbie 's gone on up de stream ! 
Jes ' now he squealed down dar : — hush ; dat 's a mighty weakly 

scream ! 
Yes, sir he 's gone, he 's gone ; — he snort way off, hke in a 

dream ! 

glory, hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high ! 

De Debbie 's fa'rly skeered to def ; he done gone flyin' by ; 

1 know'd he could 'n' stan' dat pra'r, I felt my Mahs'r nigh ! 

You, Dinah, ain't you 'shamed now dat you did n't trust to 

grace ? 
I heerd you thrashin' th'u' de bushes when he showed his face ! 
You fool, you t'ink de Debbie couldn't beat you in a race ? 

I tell you, Dinah, jes' as sure as you is standin' dar. 

When folks start prayin', answer-angels drops down th'u' de a'r ; 

Yea, Dinah, whar 'ould you be now, exceptin ' fur dat pra 'r ? 

Sidney and Clifford Lanier. 



286 GOLDENPOEMS 

TO A FISH ' 

Why flyest thou away with fear ? 

Trust me, there 's naught of danger near ; 

I have no wicked hooke, 
All covered with a snaring bait, 
Alas ! to tempt thee to thy fate, 

And dragge thee from the brooke. 

harmless tenant of the flood ! 

1 do not wish to spill thy blood, 

For Nature unto thee 
Perchance has given a tender wife, 
And children dear, to charm thy life, 

As she hath done for me. 

Enjoy the stream, O harmless fish ; 
And when an angler for his dish, 

Through gluttony's vile sin, 
Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, 
God give thee strength, O gentle trout. 

To pull the rascal in! 

John Wolcot. 

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS 

I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is. Truthful James 
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; 
And I '11 tell in simple language what I know about the row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 

But first I would remark, that 'tis not a proper plan 
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man ; 
And if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim. 
To lay for that same member for to " put a head " on him. 

Now, nothing could be finer, or more beautiful to see. 
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society ; 
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there. 
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ; 
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules. 
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost 
mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault 
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault ; 
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, 
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town: 



HUMOR 



287 



Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 
To say another is an ass — at least, to all intent ; 
Nor should the individual v/ho happens to be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent. 

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when 
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen ; 
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, 
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. 

For in less time than I write it, every member did engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; 

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin. 

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper games. 
For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James, 
And I 've told in simple language what I know about the row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 

Bret Harte. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER 

Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' sights to tell. 
Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha sa 'arty an' well. 
" Cast awaay on a disolut land wi' a vartical soon ! " 
Strange fur to goa fur to think what saailors a' seean an' a' doon ; 
" Summat to drink — sa' 'ot ? " I 'a nowt but Adam's wine : 
What 's the eat o' this little 'ill-side to the 'eat o' the line ? 

" What 's i' tha bottle a-stanning theer ? " I '11 tell tha. Gin. 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun goa fur it down to the inn. 
Naay — fur I be maain-glad, but thaw tha was iver sa dry. 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, an I '11 tell tha why. 

Mea an' thy si.^ter was married, when wur it? back-end o' June, 

Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well as a fiddle i' tune ; 

I could fettle and clump owd booots and shoes wi' the best on 

'em all. 
As fer as fro' Thursby thurn hup to Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. 
We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' as 'appy as 'art could 

think. 
An' then the babby wur burn, and then I taakes to the drink. 

An' I weant gaansaay it, my lad, thaw I be hafe shaamed on it 
now, 

We could sing a good song at the Plow, we could sing a good 
song at the Plow ; 



288 GOLDENPOEMS 

Thaw once of a frosty night I sHther'd an' hurted my huck, 
An' I coom'd neck-an-crop sometimes slaape down i' the squad 
an ' the muck : 

An' once I fowt wi' the Taailor — not hafe ov a man, my lad — 
Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my faace hke a cat, an' it maade 

er' sa mad 
That Sally she turn'd a tongue-banger, an' raated ma, "Sottin' 

thy braains 
Guzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' hawmin' about i' the 

laanes 
Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not touch thy 'at to the Squire " ; 
An' I look'd cock-eyed at my noase an' I seead 'im a-gittin' 

o ' fire ; 
But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hallus as droonk as a king, 
Foaks' coostom flitted awaay like a kite wi' a brokken string. 

An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' cloaths to keep the wolf fro the 

door, 
Eh, but the moor she riled me, she druv me to drink the moor, 
Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd, wheer Sally's owd stockin' 

wur 'id, 
An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, and I wear'd it o' 

liquor, I did. 

An' one night I cooms 'oam hke a bull gotten loose at a faair. 
An' she wur a-waaitin' fo' ma, an' cryin' an' tearin' 'er aair. 
An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' swear 'd as I 'd break ivry 

stick 
O' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied our Sally a kick, 
An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, an' she an' the babby 

beal'd, 
Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did nor a mortal beast o' the 

feald. 

An' when I waaked i' the murnin' I seead that our Sally went 

laamed 
Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur dreadful ashaamed ; 
An' Sally were sloomy an' draggle-taailed in an ow^d turn gown, 
An' the babby 's faace wurn't wesh'd an' the 'ole 'ouse hupside 

down. 

An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty an' neat an' sweeat, 
Straat as a pole an' clean as a flower fro' 'ead to feeat : 
An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 'er by Thursby thurn; 
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of a Sunday at murn. 
Couldn't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a-mountin' oop 'igher an' 'igher, 
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e shined Hke a sparkle o' fire. 



HUMOR 289 

"Doesn't tha see im," she axes, "fur I can see 'im ?" an' I 
Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; 
An' I says "I mun gie tha a kiss," an' Sally says ''Noa, thou 

moant, " 
But I gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, an' Sally says " doant ! " 

An' when we coom'd into meeatin', at fust she wur all in a tew, 
But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togither like birds on a beugh ; 
An' Muggins 'e preach 'd o' hell-fire an' the loov o' God fur 



men. 



An' then upo' coomin' awaay Sally gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. 

Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick like Saatan as fell 

Down out o' heaven i' hell-fire — thaw theer 's naw drinkin' " 

hell ; 
Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep' the wolf fro' the door. 
All along o' the drink, fur I looved 'er as well as afoor. 

Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blubber 'd awaay o' the bed — ^ 
" Weant niver do it naw moor "; an' Sally loookt up an' she said, 
" I '11 upowd it tha weant ; thou 'rt like the rest o' the men, 
Thou '11 goa sniffin' about the tap till tha does it agean. 
Theer 's thy.hennemy, man, an' I knaws, as knaws tha sa well, 
That if tha seeas 'im an' smells 'im tha '11 foller 'im slick into 
hell. " 

*' Naay, " says I, " fur I weant goa sniffin' about the tap. " 
" Weant tha ? " she says, an' mysen I thowt i'mysen " mayhap, " 
"Noa": an' I started awaay like a shot, an' down to the hinn. 
An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' theer, yon big black bottle 
o' gin. 

" That caps owt, " says Sally, an' saw she begins to cry, 

But I puts it inter 'er 'ands an' I says to 'er, " Sally, " says I, ^ 

" Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the Lord an' the power ov 'is 

graace, 
Stan' 'im theer, fur I '11 loook my hennemy strait i' the faace, 
Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let ma loook at 'im then, 
'E seeams naw moor nor watter, an' 'e 's the Divil's oan sen. " 

An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't do naw work an' all. 
Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an poonch'd my 'and wi' the 

hawl. 
But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' sattled 'ersen o my knee, 
An' coaxed an' coodled me oop till agean I feel'd mysen free. 

- An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' foalk stood a-gawmin' in, 
As thaw it wur summat bewitch 'd istead of a quart o' gin ; 
An' some on 'em said it wur watter — an' I wur chousm' the 
wife, 



290 GOLDEN POEMS 

Furl couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur it nobbut to saave my 

life; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick ov 'is airm, an' 'e shaws 

it to me, 
"Feeal thou this! thou can't graw this upo' watter !" says he. 

An' Doctor 'e calls 'o Sunday an' just as candles was lit, 

" Thou moant do it, " he says, " tha mun break 'im off bit by bit. " 

" Thou 'rt but a Methody-man, " says Parson, and laays down 

'is 'at. 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, "but I respecks tha fur that "; 
An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks down fro' the 'All to see. 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, " fur I respecks tha,' " says 'e ; 
An' coostom agean draw'd in like a wind fro' far an' wide. 
An' browt me the booots to be cobbled fro' hafe the coontryside. 

An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall stan to my dying daay ; 
I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in anoother kind of a waay, 
Proud on 'im, Hke, my lad, an' I keeaps 'im clean an' bright, 
Loovs 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 'im, an' puts 'im back i' 
the light. 

Wouldn't a pint a' sarved as well as a quart? Naw doubt : 

But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' an' fowt it out. 

Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I cared to taaste, 

But I moant, my lad, and I weant, fur I 'd feal mysen clean 

disgraced. 
An' once I said to the Missis, "My lass, when I cooms to die, 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the divil 's in 'im," said I. 
But arter, I changed my mind, an' if Sally be left aloan, 
I '11 hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an taake 'im afoor the Throan. 

Coom thou 'eer — yon laady a-steppin' along the streeat, 
Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' feat, an' neat, an' sweeat ? 
Look at the cloaths on 'er back, thebbe ammost spick-span new, 
An' Tommy's faace be as fresh as a codlin 'at 's wesh'd 'i the dew. 

'Ere 's our Sally an' Tommy, an' we be a-goin' to dine, 
Baacon an taates, an' a beslings-puddin' an' Adam's wine ; 
But if tha wants ony grog tha mun goa fur it down to the hinn , 
Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, noa, not fur Sally's oan kin. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



THE AGED STRANGER 

"I WAS with Grant" — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, "Say no more. 
But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 

For thy feet are weary and sore." 



HUMOR 291 

"I was with Grant" — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, "Nay, no more, — 
I prithee sit at my frugal board. 

And eat of my humble store. 

"How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, 

Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 
I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " 

"I know him not," said the aged man. 

And, as I remarked before, 
I was with Grant" — "Nay, nay, I know," 

Said the farmer, "say no more : 

"He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! 

Thou 'dst smooth these tidings o'er, — 
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, 

Though it rend my bosom's core. 

"How fell he, — with his face to the foe, 

Upholding the flag he bore ? 
Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 

The uniform that he wore!" 

"I cannot tell," said the aged man, 

"And should have remarked before, 
That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — 

Some three years before the war." 

Then the farmer spake him never a word. 

But beat with his fist full sore 
That aged man, who had worked for Grant 

Some three years before the war. 

Bret Harte. 



THE SORROWS OF WERTHER 

Werther had a love for Charlotte, 
Such as words could never utter ; 

Would you know how first he met her ? 
She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady. 
And a moral man was Werther ; 

And for all the wealth of Indies 
Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sighed, and pined, and ogled. 
And his passion boiled and bubbled, 



292 GOLDEN POEMS 

Till he blew his silly brains out, 
And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 

Borne before her on a shutter, 
Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



PART IX 



There are gains for all our losses, 

There are balms for all our pain, 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger and are better 

Under manhood's sterner reign ; 
Still, we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet. 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain ; 
We behold it everywhere. 
On the earth, and in the air, 
But it never comes again. 



294 



PART IX 
PATHOS AND SORROW 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

- Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the underworld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {The Princess). 

FIDELE 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun. 

Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 
Golden lads and girls all must. 
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great ; 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

295 



296 GOLDENPOEMS 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 

To thee the reed is as the oak : 
The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone •, 

Fear not slander, censure rash; 
Thou hast finish' d joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

William Shakespeare {Cymbeline). 



EVELYN HOPE 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut, — no light may pass 

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 
^ Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name, — 
It was not her time to love ; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir, — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old. 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals, — naught beside ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant as mighty to make 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 297 

But the time will come — at last it will — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what is meant, I shall say, 
In the lower earth, — in the years long still, — 

That body and soul are so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red, — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me. 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile. 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

Robert Browning. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher' st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary 1 dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ? 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past, 
Thy image at our last embrace — 

Ah ! little thought we 't was our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green ; 



298 GOLDEN POEMS 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twined am'rous round the raptured scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray. 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

Robert Burns. 

AULD ROBIN GRAY 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's come hame, 
And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fall in showers frae my ee, 
Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me 'for his bride, 
But saving a crown he had naething else beside : 
To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea. 
And the crown and the pound thy were baith for me. 

He had nae been gane a twalmonth and a day. 

When my faither brak his arm, and the cow was stown away ; 

My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie was at sea. 

And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting me. 

My faither couldna work, my mither couldna spin, 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; 
Aud Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his ee, 
Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?" 

My heart it said nay, and I look'd for Jamie back, 
But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack — 
The ship was a wrack, why didna Jamie dee ? 
Or why was I spared to cry, Wae 's me ? 

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak. 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break : 
They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea, 
And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me ! 

I had na been a wife a week but only four, 
When mournful as I sat on the stane at my door, 



PATHOS AND SORROW 

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he, 
Till he said, " I 'm come hame, love, to marry thee. " 

Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say, — 
We took but ae kiss, and tore oursels away : 
I wish I were dead, but I am no Hke to dee, 
Oh, why was I born to say, Wae 's me ? 

I gang like a ghaist, but I care na much to spin ; 
I dare na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
So I will do my best a gude wife to be. 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 

As his corse to the rampart we hurried : 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 

O 'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night. 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow. 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone. 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he '11 reck if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



299 



300 GOLDEN POEMS 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

Charles Wolfe. 



A SEA DIRGE 

Full fathom five thy father lies : 

Of his bones is coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade. 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

Hark! I hear them, — Ding, dong, bell ! 
William Shakespeare {The Tempest). 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown 

and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the 

jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy 
day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they He ; but the cold November 

rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty 

stood. 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague 

on men. 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, 

and glen. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 301 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days 

will come. 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees 

are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill ; 
The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late 

he bore. 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no 

more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side ; 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast 

the leaf. 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief ; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



ASHES OF ROSES 

Soft on the sunset sky 

Bright daylight closes, 
Leaving, when light doth die, 
Pale hues that mingling lie — 

Ashes of roses. 

When love's warm sun is set, 

Love's brightness closes ; 
Eyes with hot tears are wet, 
In hearts there linger yet 

Ashes of roses. 

Elaine Goodale. 

CLARIBEDS PRAYER 

The day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to the hills. 
While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains fell ; 

But waking Blue-eyes smiled : " 'T is ever as God wills ; 
He knoweth best, and be it rain or shine, 't is well ;- 
Praise God ! " cried always Httle Claribel. 

Then sunk she on her knees ; with eager, lifted hands 
Her rosy hps made haste some dear request to tell : 

" O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands. 
And make her free, whatever hearts rebel ; 
Amen ! Praise God ! " cried Httle Claribel. 

"And, Father, " still arose another pleading prayer, 
" Oh, save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell ! 



302 GOLDEN POEMS 

. Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid streaming hair, 
Dash Hght from those sweet eyes I love so well ! 
Amen ! Praise God ! " wept little Claribel. 

" But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done, 
And up the crimson sky the shouts of freemen swell. 

Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun 
Than he whose golden hair I love so well ; 
Amen ! praise God ! " cried little Claribel. 

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night. 
The heavy air was filled with clangor of a bell ; 

"Oh, shout ! " the Herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with 
light ; 
" 'Tis victory ! Oh, what glorious news to tell ! " 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer, " cried Claribel. 

"But pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight 
And in the fiery rain ? Oh, fought he brave and well ? " 

"Dear child, " the Herald said, " there was no braver sight 
Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and shell ; " 
"Praise God !" cried trembling little Claribel. 

"And rides he now with victor's plume of red, 
. While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps foretell ? " 

The Herald dropped a tear. " Dear child, " he softly said, 
" Thy brother evermore with conquerors shall dwell. " 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer, " cried Claribel. 

"With victors, wearing crov/ns and bearing palms," he said, 
And snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell ; 

"Oh, sweetest Herald, say my brother lives !" she plead ; 
" Dear child, he walks with angels, who in strength excel ; 
Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel. " 

' The cold gray day died sobbing on the weary hills, 

While bitter mourning on the night winds rose and fell. 
" O child, " the Herald wept, " 't is as the dear Lord wills ; 
He knoweth best, and be it life or death, 'tis well. " 
" Amen ! Praise God ! " sobbed little Claribel. 

Anonymous. 

THE RAINY DAY 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 



PATHOS AND SORROW 303 

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary 

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all. 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE DEATH -BED 

We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak. 

So slowly moved about. 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied, — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad. 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



IF SHE BUT KNEW 

If she but knew that I am weeping 

Still for her sake, 
That love and sorrow grow with keeping 

Till they must break, 
]My heart that breaking will adore her. 

Be hers and die ; 
If she might hear me once implore her. 

Would she not sigh ? 

If she but knew that it would save me 

Her voice to hear. 
Saying she pitied me, forgave me, 

Must she forbear ? 



304 GOLDEN POEMS 

If she were told that I was dying, 

Would she be dumb ? 
Could she content herself with sighing ? 

Would she not come ? 

Arthur O'Shaughnessy. 

MY SLAIN 

This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee, 

This amber-haired, four-summered little maid, 
With her unconscious beauty troubleth me. 

With her low prattle maketh me afraid. 
Ah, darling ! when you cling and nestle so 

You hurt me, though you do not see me cry, 

Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh 
For the dear babe I killed so long ago. 

I tremble at the touch of your caress ; 
I am not worthy of your innocent faith, 

I who, with whetted knives of worldliness, 
Did put my own child-heartedness to death. 

Beside whose grave I pace forevermore. 

Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore. 

There is no little child within me now 

To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up 
When June winds kiss me, when an apple-bough 

Laughs into blossom, or a buttercup 
Plays with the sunshine, or a violet 

Dances in the glad dew. Alas ! alas ! 

The meaning of the daisies in the grass 
I have forgotten ; and if my cheeks are wet 

It is not with the blitheness of the child, 
But with the bitter sorrow of sad years. 

O moaning life, with Hfe irreconciled ! 
O backward-looking thought ! O pain ! O tears ! 

For us there is not any silver sound 

Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground. 

Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore 

Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain 

Of that which was miraculous before. 
And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain. 

Woe worth the peering, analytic days 
That dry the tender juices in the breast, 
And put the thunders of the Lord to test. 

So that no marvel must be, and no praise, 
Nor any God except Necessity. 

What can ye give my poor starved life in lieu 
Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye ? 



PATHOS AND SORROW 305 

Take back your doubtful wisdom,- and renew 
My early foolish freshness of the dunce, 
Whose simple instinct guessed the heavens at once. 

Richard Realf. 

THE TOYS 

My little son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 

Having my law the seventh time disobey 'd, 

I struck him. and dismiss 'd 

With hard words and unkiss'd. 

His mother, who was patient, being dead. 

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 

I visited his bed. 

But found him slumbering deep. 

With darken 'd eyehds, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet. 

And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head. 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-vein 'd stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach. 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells. 

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art. 

To comfort his sad heart. 

So when that night I pray'd 

To God, I wept, and said : 

" Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, 

Not vexing Thee in death. 

And Thou rememberest of what toys 

We made our joys. 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good, 

Then, fatherly not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 

Thou 'It leave Thy wrath, and say, 

' I will be sorry for their childishness.' " 

Coventry Patmore. 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 



3o6 GOLDEN POEMS 

On Fame's eternal camping ground 
Their silent tents are spread, 

And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow. 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed. 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are past ; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau. 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o 'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or death. " 

Long has the doubtful conflict raged 

O 'er all that stricken plain. 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 307 

'T was in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath had swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above the mouldering slain. 
The raven 's scream, or eagle 's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air ; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

So, 'neath their parent turf they rest. 

Far from the gory field. 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast. 

On many a bloody shield ; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here. 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell ; 



3o8 GOLDEN POEMS 

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom. 
Shall dim one ray -of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 

Theodore O'Hara. 

SANDS OF DEE 

" O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
Across the sands of Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand. 
And round and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land : 
And never home came she. 

" O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — 
A tress of golden hair. 
Of drowned maiden's hair, — 
Above the nets at sea ? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair. 
Among the stakes of Dee ! " 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, — 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam, — 
To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, 
Across the sands of Dee. 

Charles Kingsley. 

HANNAH BINDING SHOES 

Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window binding shoes. 

Faded, wrinkled. 
Sitting stitching in a mournful muse. 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was on the tree ; 
Spring and winter 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 
To her whisper, 



PATHOS AND SORROW 309 

" Is there from the fishers any news ? " 

Oh, her heart 's adrift with one 

On an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and morning 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes ; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow. 
And the waves are laughing so ! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 

May is passing ; 
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes. 

Hannah shudders, 
For the mild southwester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound a schooner sped ; 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

'T is November ; 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews ; 

From Newfoundland, 
Not a sail returning will she lose. 
Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben ? " 
Old with watching, 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views ; 

Twenty seasons — 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea ;. 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah 's-at the window binding shoes. 

Lucy Larcom, 



THREE ROSES 

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down 
Each with its loveliness as with a crown, 
Drooped in a florist's window in a town. 

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest. 

Like flower on flower that night on beauty's breast. 



3IO GOLDEN POEMS 

The second rose, as virginal and fair, 
Shrank in the tangles of a harlot's hair. 

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, 
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

INTO THE WORLD AND OUT 

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise ; 
The children laughed so when they saw his eyes. 

Into the world a rosy hand in doubt 

He reached — a pale hand took one rose-bud out. 

" And that was all — quite all ! " No, surely ! But 
The children cried so when his eyes were shut. 

Sallie M. B. Piatt. 

THE CRADLE 

How steadfastly she 'd worked at it ! 

How lovingly had drest 
With all her would-be mother's wit 

That little rosy nest ! 

How longingly she'd hung on it ! — 

It sometimes seemed, she said. 
There lay beneath its coverlet, 

A little sleeping head. 

He came at last, the tiny guest, 

Ere bleak December fled ; 
That rosy nest he never prest — 

Her coffin was his bed. 



Austin Dobson. 



LOVES IGHT 



When do I see thee most, beloved one ? 

When in the light the spirits of mine eyes 

Before thy face, their altar, solemnize 
The worship of that Love through thee made known ? 

Or when in the dusk hours (we two alone). 
Close-kiss 'd and eloquent of still replies 
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies. 

And my soul only sees thy soul its own ? 

O love, my love ! if I no more should see 
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, 
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 



PATHOS AND SORROW 311 

How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope 
The ground-whirl of the perish 'd leaves of Hope, 
The wind of Death's imperishable wing ? 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



ANGELUS SONG 

Once at the Angelus 

(Ere I was dead), 
Angels all glorious. 

Came to my bed ; — 
Angels in blue and white. 

Crowned on the Head. 

One was the Friend I left 
Stark in the snow ; 

One was the Wife that died 
Long — long ago; 

One was the Love I lost — 
How could she know ? 

One had my mother's eyes, 

Wistful and mild ; 
One had my father's face ; 

One was a Child ; 
All of them bent to me, — 

Bent down and smiled. 



Austin Dobson. 



WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME 

When the grass shall cover me. 
Head to foot where I am lying ; 
When not any wind that blows, 
Summer blooms nor winter snows. 
Shall awake me to your sighing ; 
Close above me as you pass, 
You will say, " How kind she was, " 
You will say, " How true she was, " 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close to Earth's warm bosom ; 
While I laugh, or weep, or sing 
Nevermore for anything ; 
You will find in blade and blossom, 
Sweet, small voices, odorous. 
Tender pleaders in my cause. 
That shall speak me as I was — 
When the grass grows over me. 



312 GOLDEN POEMS 

When the grass shall cover me ! 
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow 
Very patient, I can wait — 
Knowing that or soon or late,"^ 
There will dawn a clearer morrow ; 
When your heart will moan, " Alas ! 
Now I know how true she was ; 
Now I know how dear she "was, " 
When the grass grows over me ! 

Ina Coolbrith. 

WHEN I AM DEAD, MY DEAREST 

When I am dead, my dearest. 

Sing no sad songs for me ; 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 

Nor shady cypress tree : 
Be the green grass above me 

With showers and dewdrops wet ; 
And if thou wilt, remember. 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain ; 
I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on, as if in pain : 
And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise nor set, 
Haply I may remember. 

And haply may forget. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 

TWO MYSTERIES 

["In the middle of the room, in its white coflSn, lay the dead child, the nephew of 
the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, 
and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spec- 
tacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. ' You don't know 
what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, and added, ' We don't, either.' "] 

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still ; 
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill ; 
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call ; 
The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. 

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain ; 
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again ; 
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, 
Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. 

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come 
this day — 



PATHOS AND SORROW 313 

Should come and ask us, " What is life ? " not one of us could say. 
Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be ; 
Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see ! 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — and blessed is the 

thought, 
" So death ' is sweet to us, beloved ! though we may show you 

naught ; 
We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death — 
Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." 

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, 
So those who enter death must go as little children sent. 
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead ; 
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. 

Mary Mapes Dodge. 

"O MITHER, DINNA DEE! " 

"O BAIRN, when I am dead. 

How shall ye keep frae harm ? 
What hand will gie ye bread ? 

What fire will keep ye warm ? 
How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me ? " 
" O mither, dinna dee ! " 

" O bairn, by night or day 
I hear nae sounds ava', 
But voices of winds that blaw, 
And the voices of ghaists that say. 
Come awa' ! come awa' ! 
The Lord that made the wind and made the sea 
Is hard on my bairn and me. 
And I melt in his breath like snaw." 
" O mither, dinna dee ! " 

" O bairn, it is but closing up the een. 
And lying down never to rise again. 
Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen,^ 
There is nae pain ! 
I 'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken why ; 
My summer has gone by, 
And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee " 
" O mither, dinna dee ! " 

Robert Buchanan. 

TO ONE IN PARADISE 

Thou wast all that to me, love. 

For which my soul did pine : 
A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine 



314 . GOLDE N POEMS 

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 
And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah, dream too bright to last 1 
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise 

But to be overcast ! 
A voice out of the Future cries, 

" On ! on 1 " — but o'er the Past 
(Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies 

Mute, motionless, aghast. 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The light of Life is o'er ! 

No more — no more — no more — 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

Or the stricken eagle soar. 

And all my days are trances, 
And all my nightly dreams 

Are where thy gray eye glances, 
And where thy footstep gleams — 

In what ethereal dances. 
By what eternal streams ' 



Edgar Allan Poe. 



MY HEART AND I 

Enough ! we 're tired, my heart and I ; 
We sit beside the headstone thus. 
And wish the name were carved for us ; 

The moss reprints more tenderly 
The hard types of the mason's knife. 
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life, 

With which we 're tired, my heart and I. 

You see we 're tired, my heart and I ; 
We dealt with books, we trusted men. 
And in our own blood drenched the pen. 

As if such colors could not fly. 
We walked too straight for fortune's end. 
We loved too true to keep a friend ; 

At last we 're tired, my heart and I. 

How tired we feel, my heart and I ; 

We seem of no use in the world ; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
About men's eyes indifferently ; 



PATHOS AND SORROW 315 

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let 
You sleep ; our tears are only wet ; 
What do we here, my heart and I ? 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 

It was not thus in that old time 

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime 
To watch the sun set from the sky : 

"Dear Love, you 're looking tired,*' he said; 

I, smiling at him, shook my head ; 
'T is now we 're tired, my heart and I. 

So tired, so tired, my heart and 1 1 

Though now none takes me on his arm 

To fold me close and kiss me warm, 
Till each quick breath ends in a sigh 

Of happy languor. Now, alone 

We lean upon his graveyard stone, 
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 

Tired out we are, my heart and I. 

Suppose the world brought diadems 

To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 
Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try. 

We scarcely care to look at even 

A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 
We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

Yet, who complains ? My heart and I ? 

In this abundant earth no doubt 

Is little room for things worn out ; 
Disdain them, break them, throw them by ; 

And if before the days grew rough. 

We once were loved, then — well enough 
I think we 've fared, my heart and I. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



ROSALIE 

When thou, in all thy loveliness. 

Sweet Rosalie, wert mine, 
Of Earth's one more, of Heaven's one less, 

I counted things divine. 

But since the lilies o'er thy breast 

Out of the sweetness spring. 
Of love's delight I miss the rest 

And keep alone the sting. 



3i6 GOLDEN POEMS 

Till now I reckon things divine 

Not as I did before ; 
Earth's share has dwindled down to mine, 

And Heaven has all the more. 

William C. Richards. 

REQUIESCAT 

Tread lightly, she is near, 

Under the snow ; 
Speak gently, she can hear 

The daisies grow. 

All her bright golden hair 

Tarnished with rust, 
She that was young and fair 

Fallen to dust. 

Lily-like, white as snow. 

She hardly knew 
She was a woman, so 

Sweetly she grew. 

Coffin-board, heavy stone, 

Lie on her breast ; 
I vex my heart alone. 

She is at rest. 

Peace, peace ; she cannot hear 

Lyre or sonnet ; 
All my life 's buried here — 

Heap earth upon it. 

Oscar Wilde. 

THE OLD SEXTON 

Nigh to a grave that was newly made. 
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade ; 
His work was done, and he paused to wait 
The funeral train at the open gate. 
A relic of by-gone days was he. 
And his locks were as white as the foamy sea ; 
And these Words came from his lips so thin : 
"I gather them in — I gather them in — 
Gather — gather — gather them in . 

"I gather them in ; for man and boy. 
Year after year of grief and joy, 
I 've builded the houses that He around 
In every nook of this burial ground. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 317 

Mother and daughter, father and son, 
Come to my solitude one by one ; 
But come they stranger, or come they kin, 
I gather them in — I gather them in. 

"Many are with me, yet I 'm alone ; 

I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne 

On a monument slab of marble cold — 

My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, 

Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all 1 

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, 

I gather them in — I gather them in. 

"I gather them in, and their final rest 

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast ! " 

And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train 

Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; 

And I said to myself : When time is told, 

A mightier voice than that sexton's old 

Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din : 

"I gather them in — I gather them in — 

Gather — gather — gather them in." 

Park Benjamin. 



ONLY A YEAR 

One year ago,— a ringing voice, 

A clear blue eye. 
And clustering curls of sunny hair, 

Too fair to die. 

Only a year, — no voice, no smile. 

No glance of eye. 
No clustering curls of golden hair. 

Fair but to die 1 

One year ago, — what loves, what schemes 

Far into Ufe ! 
What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 

What generous strife ! 

The silent picture on the wall. 

The burial-stone 
Of all that beauty, life, and joy, 

Remain alone ! 

One year, — one year, — one little year, 

And so much gone ! 
And yet the even flow of life 

Moves calmly on. 



3i8 GOLDEN POEMS 

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair 

Above that head ; 
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 

Says he is dead. 

No pause or hush of merry birds 

That sing above, 
Tells us how coldly sleeps below 

The form we love. 

Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? 

"What hast thou seen, — 
What visions fair, what glorious life, 

Where hast thou been ? 

The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 

'Twixt us and thee ; 
The mystic veil ! when shall it fall, 

That we may see ? 

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, 

But present still. 
And waiting for the coming hour 

Of God's sweet will. 

Lord of the living and the dead. 

Our Savior dear ! 
We lay in silence at thy feet 

This sad, sad year. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



BEFORE SEDAN 

Here in this leafy place, 

Quiet he lies, 
Cold, with his sightless face 
• Turned to the skies ; 
'T is but another dead ; — 
All you can say is said. 

Carry his body hence, — 
Kings must have slaves ; 

Kings climb to eminence 
Over men's graves. 

So this man's eye is dim ; — 

Throw the earth over him. 

What was the white you touched. 

There at his side ? 
Paper his hand had clutched 

Tight ere he died ; 



PATHOS AND SORROW 319 

Message or wish, may be : — 
Smooth out the folds and see. 

Hardly the worst of us 

Here could have smiled ! — 
Only the tremulous 

Words of a child : — 
Prattle, that had for stops 
Just a few ruddy drops. 

Look. She is sad to miss, 

Morning and night, 
. His — her dead father's — kiss, 

Tries to be bright, 
Good to mamma, and sweet. 
That is all. "Marguerite" 

Ah, if beside the dead 

Slumbered the pain ! 
Ah, if the hearts that bled 

Slept with the slain ! 
If the grief died ! — But no : — 
Death will not have it so, 

Austin Dobson. 



HIGHLAND MARY 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 



320 GOLDEN POEMS 

Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, 
That wraps my Highland Mafy ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Robert Burns. 

AS THRO' THE LAND 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck' d the ripen' d ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O, we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 

And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears. 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave, 
O, there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (The Princess). 

MY PLAYMATE 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, 

Their song was soft and low ; 
The blossoms in the sweet May wind 

Were falling hke the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 

The orchard birds sang clear ; 
The sweetest and the saddest day 

It seemed of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or flowers. 

My playmate left her home. 
And took with her the laughing spring, 

The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 
She laid her hand in mine ; 



PATHOS AND SORROW 321 

What more could ask the bashful boy 
Who fed her father's kine ? 

She left us in the bloom of May ; 

The constant years told o'er 
Their seasons with as sweet May morns, 

But she came back no more. 

I walk with noiseless feet the round 

Of uneventful years ; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 

Her summer roses blow ; 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 

There, haply, with her jewelled hands . 

She smooths her silken gown, 
No more the homespun lap wherein 

I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild grapes wait us by the brook. 

The brown nuts on the hill. 
And still the May-day flowers make sweet 

The woods of Folly mill. 

The lilies blossom m the pond ; 

The bird builds in the tree ; 
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 

The slow song of the sea. 

I wonder if she thinks of them, 

And how the old time seems ; 
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 

Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice : 

Does she remember mine ? 
And what to her is now the boy 

Who fed her father's kine ? 

What cares she that the orioles build 

For other eyes than ours ; 
That other hands with nuts are filled, 

And other laps with flowers ? 

O playmate in the golden time ! 

Our mossy seat is green ; 
Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o'er it lean. 



322 GOLDEN POEMS 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 

A sweeter memory blow ; 
And there in spring the veeries sing 

The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 

Are moaning like the sea, — 
The moaning of the sea of change 

Between myself and thee. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slov/ly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 

And drowsy tinkhngs lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy -mantled tower. 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or cUmb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 323 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust. 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne 'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast. 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of hfe^ 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 



324 GOLDEN POEMS 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E 'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

flaply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

One morn I missed him on the customed hill. 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 

The next, with dirges due in sad array. 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 



PATHOS AND SORROW 325 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear. 

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode ; 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose). 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 



LUCY 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and Oh, 

The difference to me ! 



I travelled among unknown men 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England, did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

'T is past, that melancholy dream ; 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, 

The bowers where Lucy played ; 
And thine too is the last green field 

That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 

William Wordsworth. 



326 GOLDEN POEMS 

THREE YEARS SHE GREW 

Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm. 

Of mute insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see 
E'en in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

''The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place, 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give. 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake. — The work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 

William Wordsworth. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 327 

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late. With my bosom cronies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; 
Eartli seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, — 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles Lamb. 



UNDER THE DAISIES 

I HAVE just been learning the lesson of life. 

The sad, sad lesson of loving. 
And all of its power for pleasure and pain 

Been slowly, sadly proving ; 
And all that is left of the bright, bright dream, 

With its thousand brilliant phases, 
Is a handful of dust in a coffin hid — ■ 

A coffin under the daisies ; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies. 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

And thus forever throughout the world 

Is love a sorrow proving ; 
There 's many a sad, sad thing in life, 

But the saddest of all is loving. 
Life often divides far wider than death ; 

Stern fortune the high wall raises ; 
But better far than two hearts estranged 

Is a low grave starred with daisies ; 



328 GOLDEN POEMS 

The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

And so I am glad that we lived as we did. 

Through the summer of love together, 
And that one of us, wearied, lay down to rest, 

Ere the coming of winter weather ; 
For the sadness of love is love grown cold, 

And 't is one of its surest phases ; 
So I bless my God, with a breaking heart, 
For that grave enstarred with daisies ; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies. 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

Hattie Tyng Griswold. 



LUCY'S FLITTIN' 

'T WAS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in', 

And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, 
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't 

And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear. 
For Lucy had served in the Glen a' the simmer ; 

She cam' there afore the flower bloom' d on the pea ; 
An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, 

Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. 

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in', 

Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see : 
" Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! " quo Jamie, and ran in ; 

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee. 
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin', 

Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! was ilka bird's sang ; 
She heard the craw sayin' 't, high on the tree sittin', 

And robin was chirpin' 't the brown leaves amang. 

Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? 

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ? 
If I wasna ettled to be ony better. 

Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? 
I 'm just like a lambie that loses its mither ; 

Nae mither or friend the puir lambie can see ; 
I fear I ha'e tint my puir heart a'thegither, 

Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. 

Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon, 
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me ; 

Yestreen, when he ga'e me 't, and saw I was sabbin', 
I '11 never forget the wae blink o' his ee. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 329 

Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! 

It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see ; 
He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy I 

Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee. 

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit ; 

The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea ; 
But Lucy Hkes Jamie ; — she turned and she lookit, 

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. 
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, 

And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn ; 
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless. 

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return. 

William Laidlaw. 



WE ARE SEVEN 

A SIMPLE child. 
That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage girl : 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air. 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — 
Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, httle maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in all, " she said, 
And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell. *' 
She answered, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

"Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the churchyard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother. " 

"You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid, how this may be. ' ' 



330 GOLDEN POEMS 

Then did the Httle maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
Beneath the churchyard tree. ' ' 

" You run about, my little maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 
Then ye are only five. ' ' 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen, ' ' 
The little maid replied, 

" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
I sit and sing to them. 

" And often after sunset, sir. 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was little Jane ; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
And, all the summer dry. 
Together round her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow, 

And I could run and slide. 

My brother John was forced to go. 

And he lies by her side. ' ' 

" How many are you, then, " said I, 
" If they two are in heaven ? " 
The little maiden did reply, 
" O master ! we are seven. ' ' 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
Their spirits are in heaven ! ' ' 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 

William Wordsworth. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 331 

THE BANKS O' BOON 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

An' I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 

Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons through the flowering thorn : 

Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed — never to return. 

Thou 'It break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And wistna o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stole my rose. 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 

Robert Burns. 

MY LOVE IS DEAD 

O, SING unto my roundelay ! 

O, drop the briny tear with me ! 
Dance no more at holiday ; 

Like a running river be. 

My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed. 
All under the willow -tree. 

Black his hair as the summer night. 

White his neck as the winter snow, 
Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 

Cold he lies in the grave below. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; 

Quick in dance as thought can be ; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 

O, he lies by the willow-tree. 
My love is dead, etc. 



332 GOLDEN POEMS 

Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 

In the brier' d dell below ; 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 

To the nightmares as they go. 
My love is dead, etc. 

See ! the white moon shines on high ; 

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, 
Whiter than the morning sky, 

Whiter than the evening cloud. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Here upon my true-love's grave 

Shall the barren flowers be laid, 
Nor one holy saint to save 

All the coldness of a maid. 
My love is dead, etc. 

With my hands I '11 bind the briers 

Round his holy corse to gre ; 
Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; 

He-re my body still shall be. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Come, with acorn -cup and thorn 

Drain my heart's blood away ; 
Life and all its good I scorn, 

Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 

Bear me to your lethal tide. 
I die ! I come ! my true-love waits. 

Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

Thomas Chatterton. 



NEVERMORE 

No MORE — no more — O, nevermore on me 
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 

Which out of all the lovely things we see 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 

Think 'st thou the honey with those objects grew ? 

Alas ! 't was not in them, but in thy power 

To double even the sweetness of a flower.' 

Lord Byron {Don Juan). 



PATHOS AND SORROW 333 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad. 
That he sings in his boat on the bay. 

And the stately ships go on _ 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea 1 ^ 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 

A LIFE 

Day dawned ; — within a curtained room, 
Filled to faintness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 

Day closed ; — a child had seen the hght ; 
But for the lady, fair and bright. 
She rested in undreaming night. 

Spring rose ; — the lady's grave was green, ^ 

And near it oftentimes was seen 
A gentle boy, with thoughtful mien. 

Years fled ; — he wore a manly face, 
And struggled in the world's rough race. 
And won, at last, a lofty place. 

And then — he died ! Behold before ye 

Humanity's poor sum and story ; 

Life — Death — and all that is of Glory. 

Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). 

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 

With heavy head bent on her yielding hand. 

And half -flushed cheek, bathed in a fevered light — 

With restless lips, and most unquiet eyes, 
A maiden sits and looks out on the night. 



334 GOLDENPOEMS 

The darkness presses close against the pane, 

And silence lieth on the elm tree old, 
Through whose wide branches steals the white-faced moon 

In fitful gleams, as though 't were bold. 

She hears the wind upon the pavement fall, 

And lifts her head, as if to Usten there ; 
Then wearily she taps against the pane. 

Or folds more close the ripples of her hair ; 
She sings unto herself an idle strain. 

And through its music all her thoughts are seen ; 
For all the burden of the song she sings 

Is, " O my God ! it might have been ! " 

Alas ! that words like these should have the power 

To crush the roses of her early youth — 
That on her altar of remembrance sleeps 

Some hope, dismantled of its love and truth — 
That 'mid the shadows of her memory lies 

Some grave, moss-covered, where she loves to lean, 
And sadly sing unto the form therein, 

" It might have been — O God ! it might have been l" 

We all have in our hearts some hidden place. 

Some secret chamber where a cold corpse lies — 
The drapery of whose couch we dress anew 

Each day, beneath the pale glare of its eyes ; 
We go from its still presence to the sun. 

To seek the pathways where it once was seen, 
And strive to still the throbbing of our hearts 

With this wild cry, " O God ! it might have been ! " 

- We mourn in secret o'er some buried love 

In the far past, whence love does not return. 
And strive to find among its ashes grey 

Some lingering spark that yet may live and burn ; 
And when we see the vainness of our task. 

We flee away, far from the hopeless scene. 
And folding close our garments o'er our hearts, 

Cry to the winds, " O God ! it might have been ! " 

Where'er we go, in sunhght or in shade. 

We mourn some jewel which the heart has missed — 
Some brow we touched in days long since gone by — 

Some lips whose freshness and first dew we kissed ; 
We shut out from our eyes the happy light 

Of sunbeams dancing on the hill-side green. 
And, like the maiden, ope them to the light 

And cry, like her, " O God ! it might have been ! " 

Anonymous. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 335 

THE HOUR OF DEATH 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Day is for mortal care ; 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth ; 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ; 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour — of mirth and song and wine ; 

There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee, — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set, — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane. 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea. 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam ; 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home ; 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest ; 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



336 GOLDEN POEMS 

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 

WALY, waly up the bank, 
And waly, waly down the brae, 

And waly, waly yon burn side. 
Where I and my love wont to gae. 

1 leaned my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak, 
Sae my true love did lightly me ! 

waly, waly, but love be bonnie, 
A little time while it is new ; 

But when 't is auld, it waxeth cauld, 
And fades away like the morning dew. 

But had I wist, before I kissed. 
That love had been sae ill to win, 

1 'd locked my heart in a case of gold, 
And pinned it with a siller pin. 

O wherefore should I busk my head, ^ 
Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 

For my true love has me forsook, 
And says he '11 never love me mair. 

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw. 
And shake the green leaves off the tree ? 

O gentle death, when wilt thou come ? 
For of my Hfe I am wearie. 

'T is not the frost that freezes fell. 

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, 

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 

Anonymous. 

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN 

When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame 
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 
'T is the poor doited loonie — the mitherless bairn ! 
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; 
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; 
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn. 
An' litheless the lair ,o' the mitherless bairn. 
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; 
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW 337 

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed 
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid ; 
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, 
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth ; 
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! 

O, speak him na harshly — he trembles the while, 
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; 
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn 
That God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn ! 

William Thom, 



AGATHA 

She wanders in the April woods. 

That glisten with the fallen shower ; 
She leans her face against the buds, 

She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. 

She feels the ferment of the hour : 
She broodeth when the ringdove broods ; 

The sun and flying clouds have power 
Upon her cheek and changing moods. 

She cannot think she is alone. 
As o'er her senses warmly steal 

Floods of unrest she fears to own. 
And almost dreads to feel. 

Along the summer woodlands wide 

Anew she roams, no more alone ; 
The joy she fear'd is at her side. 

Spring's blushing secret now is known. 

The primrose and its mates have flown, 
The thrush's ringing note hath died ; 

But glancing eye and glowing tone 
Fall on her from her god, her guide. 

She knows not, asks not, what the goal, 
She only feels she moves toward bliss, 

And yields her pure unquestioning soul 
To touch and fondling kiss. 

And still she haunts those woodland ways, 
Though all fond fancy finds there now 

To mind of spring or summer days. 
Are sodden trunk and songless bough. 



338 GOLDEN POEMS 

The past sits widow' d on her brow, 
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, 

To walls that house a hollow vow. 
To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze : 
Watches the clammy twilight wane, 

With grief too fix'd for woe or tear ; 
And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, 
Envies the dying year. 

Alfred Austin. 



THE VOICE OF THE POOR 

[In the Irish Famine of ' 4 7] 

Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow, 

O God above ? 
Will our night never change into a morrow 

Of joy and love ? 
A deadly gloom is on us, waking, sleeping. 

Like the darkness at noontide 
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping 

By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers of starvation ; 

Around, us cries of famine and despair ; 
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation — 

Where, O where ? 
If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, 

They are weeping, we are sure, 
At the litanies of human groans ascending 

From the crushed hearts of the poor. 

When the human rest in love upon the human, 

All grief is light ; 
But who bends one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night ? 
The air around is ringing with their laughter — 

God has only made the rich to smile ; 
But we in rags and want and woe — we follow after, 

Weeping the while. 

We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, 

Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave ; 
A deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness 

Is our life's journey to the grave ; 
Day by day we lower sink and lower. 

Till the God-like soul within 
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power 

Of poverty and sin. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 339 

We must toil, though the light of life is burning, 

Oh, how dim ! 
We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning 

Our eyes to Him 
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying, 

With scarce moved breath, 
While the paler hands uplifted are, and praying, 

" Lord, grant us death ! " 

Lady Wilde (Speranza). 

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT 

I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago. 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love -light in your eye. 
The place is little changed, Mary — 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 
And I still keep list'nin' for the words 

You nevermore will speak. 
'T is but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands near — 
The church where we were wed, Mary, 

I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard Hes between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest — 
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 

With your baby on your breast. 
I 'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, O, they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mary, 

My blessin' and my pride ; 
There 's nothing left to care for now. 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arm's young strength was gone ; 



340 GOLDEN POEMS 

There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile. 

When your heart was fit to break — 
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, 

And you hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore — 
O, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I 'm biddin' you a long farewell. 

My Mary, kind and true ! 
But I '11 not forget you, darling. 

In the land I 'm goin' to ; 
They say there 's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there — 
But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I '11 sit, and shut my eyes. 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side. 
And the springin' corn, and the bright May mom 

When first you were my bride. 

Lady Dufferin. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW 

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride, 
Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? " 

" I gat her where I daur na weel be seen, 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride, 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 

Nor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 



PATHOS AND SORROW 341 

" Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? " 

" Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep — 

Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow ; 
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

"• For she has tint her luver, luver dear — 

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow ; 
And I hae slain the comeliest swain 

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid ? 

Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow ? 
And why yon melancholious weeds 

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow ? 

" What 's yonder floats upo' the rueful, rueful flude ? 

What 's yonder floats ? — Oh, dule and sorrow ! 
'T is he, the comely swain I slew 

Upo' the dulefu' braes of Yarrow. 

" Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, 

His wounds in tears, wi' dule and sorrow ; 
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 

And lay him on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Then build, then build, ye sisters, ye sisters sad, 

Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow ; 
And weep around, in waeful wise. 

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, 

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, 
The fatal spear that pierced his breast. 

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Did I not warn thee not to, not to luve, 

And warn from fight ? But, to my sorrow. 
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st. 

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. 
" Sweet smells the birk ; green grows, green grows the grass ; 

Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan ; 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock ; 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin' ! 
" Flows Yarrow sweet ? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed ; 

As green its grass ; its gowan as yellow ; 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk ; 

The apple from its rocks as mellow ! 



342 GOLDEN POEMS 

" Fair was thy luve ! fair, fair indeed thy luve ! 

In flowery bands thou didst him fetter ; 
Though he was fair, and weel-beluved again, 

Than I he never loved thee better. 

" Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, 

And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." 

" How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How luve him on the banks of Tweed, 

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 

" Oh Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, 

Nor dew, thy tender blossoms cover ! 
For there was basely slain my luve. 

My luve, as he had not been a luver, 

" The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, 
His purple vest — 't was my ain sewin' ; 

Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenned 
He was in these to meet his ruin. 

" The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, 

Unmindful of my dule and sorrow ; 
But ere the toofa' of the night. 

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day ; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my luve and left me mourning. 

" What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, 

But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 
My luver's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? 

" My happy sisters may be, may be proud ; 

With cruel and ungentle scoffin' 
May bid me seek, on Yarrow's braes. 

My luver nailed in his coffin. 

" My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid. 
And strive with threatening words to muve me ; 

My luver's blood is on thy spear — 
How canst thou ever bid me luve thee ? 

" Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve ! 

With bridal sheets my body cover ! 
Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door ! 

Let in the expected husband-lover ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW 343 

" But who the expected husband, husband is ? 

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter ! 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon 

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? 

" Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ; 

Oh lay his cold head on my pillow ! 
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,^ 

And crown my rueful head with willow. 

"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beluved, 

Oh, could my warmth to Hfe restore thee 1 
Yet lie all night within my arms, 

No youth lay ever there before thee ! 

" Pale, pale indeed, O luvely, luvely youth ! 

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 
And lie all night within my arms. 

No youth shall ever lie there after ! " 

" Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride ! 

Return, and dry thy useless sorrow ! 
Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs ; 

He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. " 

William Hamilton. 



SHE AND HE 

" She is dead ! " they said to him. " Come away ; 
Kiss her ! and leave her ! — thy love is clay ! " 

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair ; 
On her forehead of marble they laid it fair ; 

Over her eyes, which gazed too much, 
They drew the Hds with a gentle touch ; 

With a tender touch they closed up well 
The sweet, thin lips that had secrets to tell ; 

About her brows, and her dear, pale face. 
They tied her veil and her marriage-lace ; 

And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes ; — 
Which were the whiter no eye could choose I 

And over her bosom they crossed her hands ; 

" Come away," they said,— " God understands ! " 

And then there was Silence ;— and nothing there 
But the Silence — and scents of eglantere. 

And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary ; 

For they said, " As a lady should lie, lies she ! " 



344 GOLDEN POEMS 

And they held their breath as they left the room, 
With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom. 

But he — who loved her too well to dread 
The sweetj the stately, the beautiful dead — 

He lit his lamp, and took the key, 

And turn'd it ! — Alone again — he and she 1 

He and she ; but she would not speak, 

Though he kiss'd, in the old place, the quiet cheek ; 

He and she ; yet she would not smile. 

Though he called her the name that was fondest erewhile. 

He and she ; and she did not move 
To any one passionate whisper of love ! 

Then he said, " Cold lips ! and breast without breath ! 
Is there no voice ? — no language of death 

" Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, 
But to heart and soul distinct — intense ? 

" See, now, — I listen with soul, not ear — 
What was the secret of dying. Dear? 

" Was it the infinite wonder of all, 
That you ever could let life's flower fall? 

" Or was it a greater marvel to feel 
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal ? 

" Was the miracle greatest to find how deep. 
Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep ? 

" Did life roll backward its record. Dear, 

And show, as they say it does, past things clear? 

" And was it the innermost heart of the bliss 
To find out so what a wisdom love is ? 

" Oh, perfect Dead ! oh. Dead, most dear, 
I hold the breath of my soul to hear ; 

" I listen — as deep as to horrible hell. 

As high as to heaven ! — and you do not tell ! 

" There must be pleasures in dying. Sweet, 
To make you so placid from head to feet ! 

" I would tell you, Darling, if I were dead. 
And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed. 

" I would say, though the angel of death had laid 
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. 

" You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes. 
Which in Death's touch was the chiefest surprise ; 



PATHOS AND SORROW 345 

" The very strangest and suddenest thing 
Of all the surprises that dying must bring." 



Ah ! foolish world ! Oh ! most kind Dead ! 
Though he told me, who will believe it was said ? 

Who will believe that he heard her say, 

With the soft rich voice, in the dear old way : — 

" The utmost wonder is this, — I hear. 

And see you, and love you, and kiss you. Dear ; 

" I can speak, now you listen with soul alone ; 
If your soul could see, it would all be shown 

" What a strange delicious amazement is Death, 
To be without body and breathe without breath. 

" I should laugh for joy if you did not cry ; 
Oh, listen ! Love lasts ! — Love never will die. 

" I am only your Angel who was your Bride ; 
And I know though dead, I have never died." 

Edwin Arnold. 



WHO NE'ER HIS BREAD IN SORROW ATE 

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate — 
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours 

Weeping upon his bed hath sate — 

He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. 

{From the German of Goethe.) 



FROM " THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM'' 

Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring 
Your winter-garment of Repentance fling : 

The bird of time has but a little way 
To flutter — and the bird is on the wing. 

Whether at Naishapur or Babylon, 
Whether the cup with sweet or bitter run. 

The wine of life keeps oozing drop by drop^ 
The leaves of Hfe keep falling one by one. 

Each mom a thousand roses brings, you say ; 
Yes, but where leaves the rose of yesterday ? 

And this first summer month that brings the rose 
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away. 



346 GOLDEN POEMS 

Well, let it take them ! What have we to do 
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru ? 
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will. 
Or Hatim call to supper — heed not you. 

With me along the strip of herbage strown 
That just divides the desert from the sown. 

Where name of slave and sultan is forgot — 
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden throne. 

A Book of verses underneath the bough, 
A Jug of wine, a loaf of bread — and Thou 

Beside me singing in the wilderness — 
Oh, wilderness were Paradise enow ! 

Some for the glories of this world, and some 
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come ; 
Ah, take the cash, and let the credit go. 
Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum ! 

Look to the blowing Rose about us — " Lo, 
Laughing, " she says, " into the world I blow. 

At once the silken tassel of my purse 
Tear, and its treasure on the garden throw. " 

And those who husbanded the golden grain. 
And those who flung it to the winds like rain, 

Alike to no such aureate earth are turn'd 
As, buried once, men want dug up again. 

The worldly hope men set their hearts upon 
Turns ashes — or it prospers ; and anon. 

Like snow upon the desert's dusty face, , 
Lighting a little hour or two — was gone. 

Think, in this batter'd caravanserai 
Whose portals are alternate night and day, 
How Sultan after Sultan with his pomp 
Abode his destined hour and went his way. 

They say the lion and the lizard keep 

The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep 

And Bahram, that great hunter — the wild ass 
Stamps o'er his head, but cannot break his sleep. 

I sometimes think that never blows so red 
The rose as where some buried Caesar bled ; 

That every hyacinth the garden wears 
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head. 

And this reviving herb whose tender green 
Fledges the river-lip on which we lean — 

Ah, lean upon it lightly ! for who knows 
From what once lovely lip it springs unseen ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW 347 

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears 
To-day of past regret and future fears : 

To-morrow ! — Why, to-morrow I may be 
Myself with yesterday's sev'n thousand years. 

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best 
That from his vintage rolling Time hath prest, 
Have drunk their cup a round or two before, 
And one by one crept silently to rest. 

And we, that now make merry in the room 
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom. 

Ourselves must we beneath the couch of earth 
Descend — ourselves to make a couch — for whom? 

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend. 
Before we too into the dust descend ; 

Dust unto dust, and under dust, to lie, 
Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and — sans end ! 

Edward FitzGerald. 



THE THREE FISHERS 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west. 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best. 
And the children stood watching them out of the town j 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And there 's little to earn, and many to keep. 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. 

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower. 
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. 
But men must work, and women must weep. 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 

For those who will never come home to the town ; 

For men must work, and women must weep. 

And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep ; 

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingsley. 



348 



GOLDEN POEMS 

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Under the one, the Blue ; 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory. 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory, 
In the dusk of eternity meet ; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Under the laurel, the Blue ; 
Under the willow, the Gray, 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go. 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe ; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Under the roses, the Blue ; 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor 

The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch impartially tender. 

On the blossoms blooming for all ; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
'Broidered with gold, the Blue ; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth. 
On forest and field of grain 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain ; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Wet with the rain, the Blue ; 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
The generous deed was done ; 

In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won ; — 



PATHOS AND SORROW 349 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Under the blossoms, the Blue ; 

Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red ; ^ 

They banish our anger forever 
When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 

Francis Miles Finch. 



DECORATION DAY AT CHARLESTON 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, — 

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ! 
Though yet no marble column craves 

The pilgrim here to pause, 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blo^vTi, 
And somewhere, waiting for its birth. 

The shaft is in the stone ! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs. 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day. 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned ! 

Henry Timrod 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER 
[Major-General Phillip Kearney] 

Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon or set of sun, 

Hand of man or kiss of woman? 



350 GOLDEN POEMS 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor , 
Let him sleep in solemn night. 
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars ? — 
What but death bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye : 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by ; 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know , 
Lay him low ! 

George Henry Boker. 

THE UNRETURNING BRAVE 

We sit here in the Promised Land 

That flows with Freedom's honey and milk ; 
But 't was they won it, sword in hand, 

Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and our best ; — 
Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest, 
Who went forth brave and bright as any here ! 
I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, 
But the sad strings complain. 
And will not please the ear ; 
I sweep them for a paean, but they wane 

Again and yet again 
Into a dirge, and die away in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the gaps. 
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, 
, Dark to the triumph which they died to gain. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 351 

Fitlier may others greet the living, 
For me the past is unforgiving! 
I with uncovered head 
Salute the sacred dead, 
Who went, and who returned not. — Say not so ! 
'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repay, 
But the high faith that failed not by the way ; 
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave ; 
No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; 

And to the saner mind 
We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. 

James Russell Lowell {Commemoration Ode). 



LORD RAGLAN 

Ah, not because our Soldier died before his field was won ; 
Ah, not because life would not last till life's long task were 

done, 
Wreathe one -less leaf, grieve with less grief, — of all our hosts 

that led 
Not last in work and worth approved. Lord Raglan lieth dead. 

His nobleness he had of none, War's Master taught him war. 
And prouder praise that Master gave than meaner lips can 

mar ; 
Gone to his grave, his duty done ; if farther any seek, 
He left his life to answer them, — a soldier's, — let it speak ! 

'T was his to sway a blunted sword, — to fight a fated field. 
While idle tongues talked victory, to struggle not to yield ; 
Light task for placeman's ready pen to plan a field for fight, 
Hard work and hot with steel and shot to win that field aright. 

Tears have been shed for the brave dead ; mourn him who 

mourned for all ! 
Praise hath been given for strife well striven, praise him who 

strove o'er all. 
Nor count that conquest little, though no banner flaunt it far. 
That under him our English hearts beat Pain and Plague and 

War. 

And if he held those English hearts too good to pave the path 
To idle victories, shall we grudge what noble palm he hath? 
Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and 'mid his soldiers 

seen. 
His work was aye as stern as theirs ; oh ! make his grave as 

green. 



352 GOLDEN POEMS 

They know him well, the Dead who died that Russian wrong 

should cease, 
Where fortune doth not measure men, their souls and his have 

peace ; 
Aye ! as well spent in sad sick tent as they in bloody strife, 
For English homes our English Chief gave what he had — 

his life. Edwin Arnold. 



VALE^ 

^^De mortuis nil nisi bonum.'' When 

For me the end has come, and I am dead, 
And little voluble chattering daws of men 

Peck at me curiously, let it then be said 
By some one brave enough to speak the truth : 

Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong. 
Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth, 

To his bleak, desolate noon, with sword, and song. 
And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart, 

He wrought for Liberty, till his own wound 
(He had been stabbed), concealed with painful art 

Through wasting years, mastered him, and he swooned, 
And sank there where you see him lying now. 
With that word " Failure " written on his brow. 

But say that he succeeded. If he missed 

World's honors, and world's plaudits, and the wage 
Of the world's deft lacqueys, still his lips were kissed 

Daily by those high angels who assauge 
The thirstings of the poets — for he was 

Born unto singing, and a burthen lay 
Mightily on him, and he moaned because 

He could not rightly utter in the day 
What God taught in the night. Sometimes, nathless. 

Power fell upon him, and bright tongues of flame. 
And blessings reached him from poor souls in stress. 

And benedictions from black pits of shame, 
And little children's love, and old men's prayers, 
And a Great Hand that, led him unawares. 

So he died rich. And if his eyes were blurred 

With thick films — silence ! he is in his grave. 
Greatly he suffered ; greatly, too, he erred ; 

Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave. 
Nor did he wait till Freedom had become 

The popular shibboleth of the courtier's lips, 
But smote for her when God Himself seemed dumb 

And all His arching skies were in eclipse. 

* Written immediately before his suicide. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 353 

He was a-weary, but he fought his fight, 

And stood for simple manhood ; and was joyed 

To see the august broadening of the Hght, 

And new earths heaving heavenward from the void. 

He loved his fellows, and their love was sweet — 

Plant daisies at his head and at his feet. 

Richard Realf. 



DICKENS IN CAMP 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 

A hoarded volume drew. 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, 

To hear the tale anew ; 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. 

And as the firelight fell. 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of Little Nell. 

Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, — for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall : 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows. 

Listened in every spray. 
While the whole camp, with Nell, on English meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them hke the needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : 

And he who wrought that spell ? — 
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 



354 GOLDEN POEMS 

Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story- 
Blend with the breath that thrills 

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory- 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths intwine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly — 

This spray of Western pine. 

Bret Harte. 



OBSEQUIES OF DAVID THE PAINTER 

[Ex-Member oe the French National Convention] 

The pass is barred ! " Fall back ! " cries the guard ; " cross 
not the French frontier ! " 

As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the funeral drew near. 

For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no plume, no pall 
can hide, 

That yon hearse contains the sad remains of a banished regicide ! 

" But pity take, for his glory's sake," said his children to the 
guard ; 

" Let his noble art plead on his part — let a grave be his re- 
ward ! 

France knew his name in her hour of fame nor the aid of 
his pencil scorned ; 

Let his passport be the memory of the triumphs he adorned ! ' 

" That corpse can't pass ! 't is my duty, alas ! " said the fron- 
tier sentinelle, — 
" But pity take for his country's sake, and his clay do not 

repel 
From its kindred earth, from the land of his birth ! " cried 

the mourners in their turn ; 
" Oh, give to France the inheritance of her painter's funeral 

urn : 
His pencil traced, on the Alpine waste of the pathless Mont 

Bernard, 
Napoleon's course on the snow-white horse : — let a grave be 

his reward ! 
For he loved this land — aye, his dying hand to paint her 

fame he 'd lend her : 
Let his passport be the memory of his native country's splendor ! " 

" Ye cannot pass, " said the guard, " alas ! " (for tears be- 

dimmed his eyes) 
" Though France may count to pass that mount a glorious 

enterprise " ; 



PATHOS AND SORROW 355 

" Then pity take for fair Freedom's sake," cried the mourn- 
ers once again ; 

" Her favorite was Leonidas, with his band of Spartan men ; 

Did not his art to them impart Hfe's breath, that France might 
see 

What a patriot few in the gap could do at old Thermopylae ? 

Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the youthful bosom 
fired 1 

Let his passport be the memory of the valor he inspired.' ' 

"Ye cannot pass, " — " Soldier, alas ! a dismal boon we crave ; 
Say, is there not some lonely spot where his friends may dig a 

grave ? 
O, pity take, for that hero's sake whom he gloried to portray 
With crown and palm at Notre Dame on his coronation day. 
Amid that band the withered hand of an aged pontiff rose. 
And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, forgiving his own 

woes ; 
He drew that scene — nor dreamed, I ween, that yet a little while 
And the hero's doom would be a tomb far oflf in a lonely isle 1 ' ' 

"I am charged, alas ! not to let you pass," said the sorrowing 

sentinelle ; 
"His destiny must also be a foreign grave ! " — " 'T is well ! 
Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a place of rest. 
And to bear away his banished clay from the land that he loved 

best. 
But let us hence ! sad recompense for the lustre that he cast. 
Blending the rays of modern days with the glories of the past ! 
Our sons v/ill read with shame this deed (unless my mind doth 

err); 
And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's sepulchre ! ' ' 

Fbancis Mahony (Father Prout) 
{From the French of Ber anger). 



BAYARD TAYLOR 

" And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend ? ' ' 

My sister asked our guest one winter's day. 

Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet way 
Common to both : " Wherever thou shalt send ! 
What wouldst thou have me see for thee ? ' ' She laughed, 

Her dark eyes dancing in the wood-fire's glow : 

"Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low 
Unsetting sun on Finmark's fishing-craft." 
"All these and more I soon shall see for thee ! " 



356 GOLDEN POEMS 

He answered cheerily : and he kept his pledge 
On Lapland's snow, the North Cape's windy wedge, . 
And Tromso freezing in its winter sea. 

He went and came. But no man knows the track 
Of his last journey, and he comes not back ! 

He brought us wonders of the new and old ; 

We shared all climes with him. The Arab's tent 

To him its story -telling secret lent. 
And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told. 
His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure, 

In manly, honest thoroughness he wrought ; 

From humble home-lays to the heights of thought 
Slowly he climbed, but every step was sure. 
How, with the generous pride that friendship hath, 

We, who so loved him, saw at last the crown 
• Of civic honor on his brows pressed down. 
Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death. 

And now for him, whose praise in deafened ears 

Two nations speak, we answer but with tears ! 

O Vale of Chester ! trod by him so oft, 

Green as thy June turf keep his memory. Let 

Nor wood, nor dell, nor storied stream forget, 
Nor winds that blow round lonely Cedarcroft ; 
Let the home voices greet him in the far. 

Strange land that holds him ; let the messages 

Of love pursue him o'er the chartless seas 
And unmapped vastness of his unknown star ! 
Love's language, heard beyond the loud discourse 

Of perishable fame, in every sphere 

Itself interprets ; and its utterance here 
Somewhere in God's unfolding universe 

Shall reach our traveller, softening the surprise 

Of his rapt gaze on unfamiliar skies. 

John Greenleat Whittier. 



HORACE GREELEY 

Earth, let thy softest mantle rest 

On this worn child to thee returning. 
Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast. 

Who loved thee with such tender yearning. 
He knew thy fields and woodland ways, 

And deemed thy humblest son his brother ; — 
Asleep, beyond our blame or praise. 

We yield him back, O gentle Mother ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW 357 

Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill ; 

Who has not read the Hfe-long story ? 
And dear we hold his fame, but still 

The man v/as dearer than his glory. 
And now to us are left alone 

The closet where his shadow lingers. 
The vacant chair — that was a throne, — 

The pen just fallen from his fingers. 

Wrath changed to kindness on that pen, 

Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey ; 
One flash from out the cloud, and then 

The skies with smile and jest were sunny. 
Of hate he surely lacked the art, 

Who made his enemy his lover : 
O reverend head, and Christian heart ! 

Where now their like the round world over ? 

He saw the goodness, not the taint, 

In many a poor, do-nothing creature. 
And gave to sinner and to saint, 

But kept his faith in human nature ; 
Perchance he was not worldly wise, 

Yet we who noted, standing nearer, 
The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes. 

For every weakness held him dearer. 

Alas, that unto him who gave 

So much, so little should be given ! 
Himself alone he might not save. 

Of all for whom his hands had striven. 
Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed ; 

Men took, and passed, and left him lonely ; — 
What marvel if, beneath his load. 

At times he craved — for justice only. 

Yet thanklessness, the serpent's tooth, 

His lofty purpose could not alter ; 
Toil had no power to bend his youth, 

Or make his lusty manhood falter ; 
From envy's sling, from slander's dart, 

That armored soul the body shielded, 
Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart. 

And then he bowed his head and yielded. 

Now, now, we measure at its worth 

The gracious presence gone forever ! 
The wrinkled East, that gave him birth, 

Laments with every laboring river ; 



358 GOLDEN POEMS 

Wild moan the free winds of the West 

For him who gathered to her prairies 
The sons of men, and made each crest 

The haunt of happy household fairies ; 

And anguish sits upon the mouth 

Of her who cam^e to know him latest : 
His heart was ever thine, O South ! 

He was thy truest friend, and greatest ! 
He shunned thee in thy splendid shame, 

He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow ; 
The day thou shalt forget his name, 

Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. 

The tears that fall from eyes unused. 

The hands above his grave united. 
The words of men whose lips he loosed, 

Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted, — 
Could he but know, and rest with this ! 

Yet stay, through Death's low-lying hollow, 
His one last foe's insatiate hiss 

On that benignant shade would follow ! 

Peace ! while we shroud this man of men, 

Let no unhallowed word be spoken 1 
He will not answer thee again, 

His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. 
Some holier cause, some vaster trust 

Beyond the veil, he doth inherit : 
O gently. Earth, receive his dust. 

And Heaven. soothe his troubled spirit ! 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD 

BLOOM' D 

[On the Death of President Lincoln] 

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom' d, 

And the great star early droop' d in the western sky in tho night, 
I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever returning spring. 
O ever returning Spring ! trinity sure to me you bring ; 
Lilac, blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, 
And thought of him I love. 

O powerful, western, fallen star ! 

O shades of night 1 O moody, tearful night ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW 359 

O great star disappear' d ! O the black murk that hides the 

star ! 
O cruel hands that hold me powerless ! O helpless soul of me ! 
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul ! 

In the dooryard fronting an old farmhouse, near the whitewash' d 
palings, 

Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of 
rich green, 

With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume 
strong I love, 

With every leaf a miracle . . . and from this bush in the door- 
yard, 

With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves 'of rich 
. green, 

A sprig, with its flower, I break. 

In the swamp, in secluded recesses, 

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, 
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements. 
Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat ! 
Death's outlet song of life — (for well, dear brother, I know 
If thou wast not gifted to sing thou wouldst surely die). 

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, 

Amid lanes, and through old woods (where lately the violets 

peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris) ; 
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes — passing 

the endless grass ; 
Passing the yellow-spear' d wheat, every grain from its shroud in 

the dark -brown fields uprising ; 
Passing the apple tree blows of white and pink in the orchards ; 
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave. 
Night and day journeys a coffin. 

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets. 
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land. 
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in 

black. 
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd women, 

standing. 
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the 

night, 
With the countless torches lit — with the silent sea of faces and 

the unbared heads. 
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, 
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising 

strong and solemn ; 



360 GOLDEN POEMS 

With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the 
coffin, 

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs 

Where amid these you journey, 
With the toihng, toiling bells' perpetual clang ; 
Here ! coffin that slowly passes, 
I give you my sprig of lilac. 

Sing on there in the swamp ! 

singer bashful and tender ! I hear your notes — I hear your 

call ; 

1 hear — I come presently — I understand, you ; 

But a moment I linger — for the lustrous star has detained me ; 
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me. 

how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved ? 
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has 

gone? 
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love ? 

Sea winds, blown from east and west. 
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, 

till there on the prairies meeting : 
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, 

1 perfume the grave of him I love. 

Walt Whitman. 



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done. 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is w^on, 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; 
But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 
, Where on the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 

Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills. 

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores 

acrowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; 
Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath your head ! 
It is some dream that on the deck 
You Ve fallen cold and dead. 



PATHOS AND SORROW 361 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will ; 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done. 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. 
Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! 

But I, with mournful tread, - ' ■ 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 



HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD 

Home they brought her warrior dead: 
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
"She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 

Called him worthy to be loved. 
Truest friend and noblest foe ; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 

Lightly to the warrior stept. 
Took the face-cloth from the face ; 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee, — 
Like summer tempest came her tears, 

"Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {The Princess), 



FAREWELL 

The same year calls, and one goes hence with another, 
And men sit sad that were glad for their sweet songs' sake ; 

The same year beckons, and younger with elder brother 
Takes mutely the cup from his hand that we all must take ; 

They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come, — 

And the birds are loud, but the lips that outsung them are dumb. 

Time takes them home that we loved — fair names and famous — 
To the soft, long sleep, to the broad, sweet bosom of death ; 



362 GOLDEN POEMS 

But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame us, 

Nor the lips lack song forever, that now lack breath ; 
For with us shall the music and perfume that died not dwell, 
Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we — farewell ! 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



PART X 



I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon 
Brightened with joy; for from within were heard 
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
Of ebb and flow, and ever-dunng power ; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. Here you stand. 
Adore, and worship, when you know it not ; 
Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
D&uout above the meaning of your will. 



PART X 
THE BETTER LIFE 



HEARD ARE THE VOICES 

But heard are the voices, 
Heard are the Sages, 
The worlds and the ages : 
Choose well, your choice is 
Brief and yet endless. 

" Here eyes do regard you 
In eternity's stillness. 
Here is all fullness. 
The brave, to reward you ; 
Work, and despair not." 

Thomas Carlyle (jrom Goethe). 



HOW TO LIVE 

He liveth long who liveth well \ 
All other life is short and vain ; 

He liveth longest who can tell 
Of Hving most for heavenly gain. 

He liveth long who liveth well ! 

All else is being flung away ; 
He liveth longest who can tell 

Of true things truly done each day. 

Waste not thy being ; back to Him 
Who freely gave it, freely give ; 

Else is that being but a dream ; 
'T is but to he, and not to live. 

Be what thou seemest ! live thy creed ! 

Hold up to earth the torch divine ; 
Be what thou prayest to be made ; 

Let the great Master's steps be thine. 

Fill up each hour with what will last ; 

Buy up the moments as they go ; 
The hfe above, when this is past, 

Is the ripe fruit of life below. 

365 



366 GOLDEN POEMS 

Sow truth, if thou the truth wouldst reap : 
Who sows the false shall reap the vain ; 

Erect and sound thy conscience keep ; 
From hollow words and deeds refrain. 

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure ; 

Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright ; 
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, 

And find a harvest-home of light. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



A HAPPY LIFE 

How happy is he born and taught. 
That serveth not another's will ; 
Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are. 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Not tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 

Who God doth late and early pray. 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend ; 

This man is freed from servile bands, 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton, 



GRADATIM 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 



THE BETTER LIFE 367 

I count this thing to be grandly true, 
That a noble deed is a step toward God, 
Lifting the soul from the common sod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by the things that are under our feet ; 
By what we have mastered of good and gain, 
By the pride deposed and passion slain, 

And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, 
When the morning calls us to life and light ; 
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night 

Our lives are trailing in sordid dust. 

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray. 

And we think that we mount the air on wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things. 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 

Wings for the angels, but feet for men ! 
We borrow the wings to find the way — 
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray. 

But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; 
But the dreams depart and the vision falls, 

And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 

A HINDOO'S SEARCH FOR TRUTH 

All the world over I wonder, in lands that I never have trod, 
Are the people eternally seeking for signs and steps of a God? 
Westward across the ocean, and northward beyond the snow, 
Do all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know? 

Here in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm. 
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a 

gathering storm ; 
In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen. 
Yet we all say, "Whence is the message, and what may the 

wonders mean ? " 

A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings, ^ 
As they bow to. mystical symbol or the figures of ancient kings ; 



368 GOLDEN POEMS 

And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry 

Of those who are heavy laden, and of cowards loth to die. 

For the destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills : 
Above is the sky, and around us the sound and the shot that kills ; 
Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown, 
We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone. 

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the first of an ancient name. 
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died 

in flame ; 
They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits 

who guard our race : 
Ever I watch and worship ; they sit with a marble face. 

And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of mutter- 
ing priests, 

The revels and rites unholy, the dark unspeakable feasts ! 

What have they wrung from the silence ? Hath even a whisper 
come 

Of the secret — whence and whither ? Alas ! for the gods 
are dumb. 

Shall I list the word of the English, who come from the utter- 
most sea ? — 

The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message 
to me ? — 

It is naught but the wide-world story how the earth and the 
heavens began. 

How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once was man. 

I had thought, " Perchance in the cities where the rulers of 

India dwell. 
Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth 

with a spell, 
They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the 

unknown main — " 
Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain. 

Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer 

awake ? 
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror 

break ? 
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered 

and gone 
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning 

are level and lone ? 

Is there naught in the heaven above, whence the hail and the 

levin are hurled. 
But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling 

world ? 



THE BETTER LIFE 369 

The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence 

and sleep, 
With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and voices of 

women who weep ? 

A. C. Lyall. 



RESPONSES 

Never from lips of cunning fell 

The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 

Out from the heart of Nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome. 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 

Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 

Himself from God he could not free ; 

He builded better than he knew — 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost, 
Girds with one flame the countless host. 
Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
And through the priest the mind inspires. 
The word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
The word by seers or sibyls told. 
In groves of oak or fanes of gold. 
Still floats upon the morning wind. 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson {The Problem). 



DE PROFUNDIS 

The face which, duly as the sun, 
Rose up for me with life begun, 
To mark all bright hours of the day 
With daily love, is dimmed away — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 

The tongue which, like a stream, could run 
Smooth music from the roughest stone. 
And every morning with " Good-day " 
Made each day good, is hushed away — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 



370 GOLDEN POEMS 

The heart which, like a staff, was one 
For mine to lean and rest upon, 
The strongest on the longest day 
With steadfast love, is caught away — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 

And cold before my summer 's done. 
And deaf in Nature's general tune, 
And fallen too low for special fear. 
And here, with hope no longer here — 
While the tears drop, my days go on. 

The world goes whispering to its own, 
" This anguish pierces to the bone." 
And tender friends go sighing round, 
" What love can ever cure this wound ? " 
My days go on, my days go on. 

The past rolls forward on the sun 
And makes all night. O dreams begun, 
Not to be ended ! Ended bliss ! 
And life, that will not end in this ! 
My days go on, my days go on. 

Breath freezes on my lips to moan ; 
As one alone, once not alone, 
I sit and knock at Nature's door. 
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor. 
Whose desolated days go on. 

I knock and cry . . . Undone, undone ! 
Is there no help, no comfort . . . none ? 
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains 
Where others drive their loaded wains ? 
My vacant days go on, go on. 

This Nature, though the snows be down, 
Thinks kindly of the bird of June. 
The little red hip on the tree 
Is ripe for such. What is for me. 
Whose days so winterly go on ? 

No bird am I to sing in June, 
And dare not ask an equal boon. 
Good nests and berries red are Nature's 
To give away to better creatures. 
And yet my days go on, go on. 

I ask less kindness to be done — 
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon 
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet 
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet. 
Till days go out which now go on. 



THE BETTER LIFE 371 

Only to lift the turf unmown 
From off the earth where it has grown, 
Some cubit-space, and say, " Behold, 
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, 
Forgetting how the days go on." 

What harm would that do ? Green anon 
The sward would quicken, overshone 
By skies as blue ; and crickets might 
Have leave to chirp there day and night, 
While my new rest went on, went on. 

From gracious Nature have I won 
Such liberal bounty ? May I run 
So, lizard-like, within her side. 
And there be safe, who now am tried 
By days that painfully go on ? 

— A Voice reproves me thereupon. 

More sweet than Nature's, when the drone 

Of bees is sweetest, and more deep 

Than when the rivers overleap 

The shuddering pines, and thunder on. 

God's voice, not Nature's — night and noon 
He sits upon the great white throne 
And listens for the creature's praise. 
What babble we of days and days ? 
The Dayspring He, whose days go on. 

He reigns above, He reigns alone ; 
Systems burn out, and leave His throne ; 
" Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall 
Around Him, changeless amid all : 
Ancient of Days, whose days go on ! 

He reigns below, He reigns alone, — 
And having life in love foregone 
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns. 
He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns 
Or rules with Him, while days go on ? 

By anguish which made pale the sun, 
I hear Him charge his saints that none 
Among the creatures anywhere. 
Blaspheme against Him with despair. 
However darkly days go on. 

— Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown ! 
No mortal grief deserves that crown. 
O supreme Love, chief misery, 
The sharp regalia are for Thee 
Whose days eternally go on ! 



372 GOLDE N POEMS 

For us . . . whatever 's undergone, 
Thou knowest, wiliest what is done. 
Grief may be joy misunderstood ; 
Only the Good discerns the good. 
I trust Thee while my days go on. 

Whatever 's lost, it first was won ; 

We will not struggle nor impugn. 

Perhaps the cup was broken here 

That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. 

I praise Thee while my days go on ! 

I praise Thee while my days go on ; 

I love Thee while my days go on ! 

Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, 

With emptied arms and treasures lost, 

I thank Thee while my days go on ! 

And having in thy life -depth thrown 
Being and suffering (which are one). 
As a child drops some pebble small 
Down some deep well and hears it fall, 
Smiling, ... so I ! Thy days go on. 

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



RESTITUTION 

Is Nature weak? Do her enchantments fail? 
Almighty is the word. Let God prevail. 
Art thou impatient of thy time's disaster? 

And dost thou dread a failing land's distress? 
And are thy hopes that blazed, dissolving faster 
Than fire-swept grasses in the wilderness ? 

Say, hath thy Reason like a thief waylaid thee, 
And in Faith's robbery left thee poor indeed? 

Say, hath thy heart, a treacherous wife, betrayed thee ? 
Say, do thy murdered hopes, thy children, bleed ? 

And are they dying — aye, and dead, and cast 

To the deep vaults ? Say, dost thou glower aghast 

At ruin, ruin, ruin, thrice deserted, 

Friends lost, faith lost, and all that faith supplies, 
While hope turns from thee, and with eyes averted 

Thy better genius warns but once, and flies ? 
Say, art thou but a corpse beneath the skin, 
While to their ashes burn the fires within ? 

Thou, brother, thou, a Hghtning-splintered globe, 

A thunder-scarred, fire-devastated isle. 
Whom death and hate would momently disrobe, 



THE BETTER LIFE 373 

A kindred genius, with mild, asking smile, 
For thee would summon kinsmen far away 
In the Sun's ruby chamber, " Lo ! " they say, 

"Hear what the Word, with voice apocalyptic, 

Reveals in power omnipotently sweet ; 
Gather the hopes that star its vast ecliptic ; 

With Nature haste to her dear Master's feet. 
Art thou a Winter ? thou a Spring shalt bloom. 
And smile an Eden, thou who wert a tomb. " 

Anonymous. 



BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone 

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 
The Power who pities man has shown 

A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 

The lids that overflow with tears ; 
And weary hours of woe and pain 

Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night ; 
And grief may bide an evening guest, 

But joy shall come with early light. 

And thou who, o'er thy friend's low bier, 

Sheddest the bitter drops like rain ; 
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 

Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man's trust depart. 
Though hfe its common gifts deny, — 

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart. 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 

For God hath marked each sorrowing day 

And numbered every secret tear, 
And heaven's long age of bHss shall pay 

For all his children suffer here. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

THE MASTER'S TOUCH 

In the still air the music lies unheard ; 

In the rough marble beauty lies unseen : 
To make the music and the beauty, needs 

The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. 



374 



GOLDEN POEMS 

Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand ; 

Let not the music that is in us die ! 
Great Sculptor, hew and pohsh us ; nor let. 

Hidden and lost, thy form within us he ! 

Spare not the stroke ! do with us as thou wilt ! 

Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred ; 
Complete thy purpose, that we may become 

Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord ! 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



PROSPICE 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat. 

The mist in my face. 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place. 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go : 
For the journey is done and the summit attain' d, 

And the barriers fall. 
Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gain'd. 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 
I woiild hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 

The heroes of old. 
Bear the brunt in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute 's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest ! 

Robert Browning. 



/ HOLD STILL 

Pain's furnace-heat within me quivers, 

God's breath upon the flame doth blow, 
And all my heart within me shivers 



THE BETTER LIFE 375 

And trembles at the fiery glow ; 
And yet I whisper — "As God will ! " 
And in the hottest fire, hold still. 

He comes and lays my heart, all heated, 

On the hard anvil, minded so 
Into His own fair shape to beat it. 

With His own hammer, blow on blow ; 
And yet I whisper — "As God will ! " 
And at His heaviest blows, hold still. 

He takes my softened heart, and beats it — 

The sparks fly off at every blow : 
He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it. 

And lets it cool, and makes it glow ; 
And yet I whisper — "As God will ! " 
And in the mighty hand, hold still. 

Why should I murmur ? for the sorrow 

Thus only longer lived would be ; 
Its end may come, and will, to-morrow, 

When God has done His work in me. 
So I say, trusting — "As God will ! " 
And trusting to the end, hold still. 

He kindles for my profit purely 

Affliction's glowing, fiery brand. 
And all His heaviest blows are surely 

Inflicted by a Master's hand ; 
So I say, praying, "As God will ! " 
And hope in Him and suffer still. 

{From the German.) 



GETHSEMANE 

In golden youth, when seems the earth 
A summer land of singing mirth. 
When souls are glad and hearts are light, 
And not a shadow lurks in sight, 
We do not know it, but there lies 
Veiled somewhere under evening skies 
A garden which we all must see — 
The garden of Gethsemane. 

With joyous steps we go our ways, 
Love lends a halo to our days ; 
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar ; 
We laugh, and say how strong v/e are. 



376 GOLDEN POEMS 

We hurry on ; and hurrying, go 
Close to the border-land of woe 
That waits for you and waits for me — 
Forever waits Gethsemane. 

Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams 
Bridged over by our broken dreams, 
Behind the misty capes of years. 
Beyond the great salt fount of tears. 
The garden lies. Strive as you may, 
You cannot miss it in your way. 
All paths that have been or shall be 
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane. 

All those who journey soon or late 
Must pass within the garden's gate ; 
Must kneel alone in darkness there, 
And battle with some fierce despair. 
God pity those who cannot say, 
"Not mine but thine " ; who only pray, 
"Let this cup pass," and cannot see 
The purpose in Gethsemane. 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 

Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
The labor and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon snioke concealed. 
Your comrades chase e'en now the flyers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 

Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
Far back, through creeks and inlets making. 

Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only. 

When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly ! 
But westward, look ! the land is bright. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



THE BETTER LIFE 
MY LEGACY 



377 



They told me I was heir ; I turned in haste, 

And ran to seek my treasure, 
And wondered, as I ran, how it was placed, — 

If I should find a measure 
Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands 
And houses would be laid within my hands. 

I journeyed many roads ; I knocked at gates ; 

I spoke to each wayfarer 
I met, and said, " A heritage awaits 

Me. Art not thou the bearer 
Of news ? some message sent to me whereby 
I learn which way my liew possessions He ? " 

Some asked me in ; naught lay beyond their door ; 

Some smiled, and would not tarry. 
But said that men were just behind who bore 

More gold than I could carry ; 
And so the morn, the noon, the day, were spent, 
While empty-handed up and down I went. 

At last one cried, whose face I could not see, 

As through the mists he hasted : 
"Poor child ! what evil ones have hindered thee 

Till this whole day is wasted ? 
Hath no man told thee that thou art joint heir 
With one named Christ, who waits the goods to share ? " 

The one named Christ I sought for many days. 

In many places vainly ; 
I heard men name his name in many ways ; 

I saw his temples plainly ; 
But they who named him most gave me no sign 
To find him by, or prove the heirship mine. 

And when at last I stood before his face, 

I knew him by no token _ 
Save subtle air of joy which filled the place ; 

Our greeting was not spoken ; 
In solemn silence I received my share, 
KneeUng before my brother and " joint heir." 

My share ! No deed of house or spreading lands, 

' As I had dreamed ; no measure 
Heaped up with gold : my elder brother's hands 

Had never held such treasure. 
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed : 
My brother had not where to lay his head. 



378 GOLDEN POEMS 

My share ! The right like him to know all pain 

Which hearts are made for knowing ; 
The right to find in loss the surest gain ; 

To reap my joy from sowing 
In bitter tears ; the right with him to keep 
A watch by day and night with all who weep. 

My share ! To-day men call it grief and death ; 

I see the joy and life to-morrow ; 
I thank my Father with my every breath, 

For this sweet legacy of sorrow ; 
And through my tears I call to each " joint heir " 
With Christ : " Make haste to ask him for thy share." 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 

BRINGING OUR SHEAVES 

The time for toil is past, and night has come, 

The last and saddest of the harvest eves ; 
Worn out with labor long and wearisome, 
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, 
Each laden with his sheaves. 

Last of the laborers. Thy feet I gain. 

Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves 

That I am burdened not so much with grain 

As with a heaviness of heart and brain ; 
Master, behold my sheaves ! 

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat. 
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves ; 
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet 
I kneel down reverently and repeat : 
"Master, behold my sheaves ! " 

Few, light, and worthless ; yet their trifling weight 

Through all my frame a weary aching leaves ; 
For long I struggled with my helpless fate. 
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late, 
Yet these are all my sheaves. 

And yet I gather strength and hope anew ; 

For well I know thy patient love perceives 
Not what I did, but what I strove to do ; 
And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few. 

Thou wilt accept my sheaves. 

Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Percy), 



THE BETTER LIFE 379 

FOLLOW ME 

The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain, 
And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's head ; 
And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some pain, 
And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguished tear is shed. 

For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear, 
And those lips cannot be human which have never heaved a sigh ; 
For without the dreary winter there has never been a year, 
And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest summer sky. 

So this dreamy life is passing — and we move amidst its maze, 
And we grope along together, half in darkness, half in light ; 
And our hearts are often burdened with the mysteries of our ways, 
Which are never all in shadow, and are never wholly bright. 

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide. 
And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and the key ; 
And a cross gleams o'er our pathway, on it hangs the Crucified, 
And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, " Follow Me. " 

Abram T. Ryan {A Thought). 

HOPE, FAITH, LOVE 

There are three lessons I would write — 

Three words as with a burning pen, 
In tracings of eternal light 

Upon the hearts of men. 

Have hope. Though clouds environ now, 
And gladness hides her face in scorn. 

Put thou the shadow from thy brow — 
No night but hath its morn. 

Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven, 
The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth. 

Know this — God rules the host of heaven, 
The inhabitants of earth. 

Have love. Not love alone for one. 

But man, as man, thy brothers all ; 
And scatter, like the circling sun, 

Thy charities on all. 

Thus grave these lessons on thy soul — 

Hope, Faith, and Love — and thou shalt find 

Strength when life's surges rudest roll. 
Light when thou else wert blind. 

(From the German of Schiller.) 



3So GOLDEN POEMS 

TAKE HEART 

- All day the stormy wind has blown 

From off the dark and rainy sea ; 
No bird has past the window flown, 
The only song has been the moan 

The wind made in the willow-tree. 

This is the summer's burial-time : 

She died when dropped the earliest leaves ; 

And, cold upon her rosy prime, 

Fell down the autumn's frosty rime ; 
Yet I am not as one that grieves, — 

For well I know o'er sunny seas 

The bluebird waits for April skies ; 
And at the roots of forest trees 
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, 

And violets hide their azure eyes. 

O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown 
Beside some golden summer's bier, — 

Take heart ! Thy birds are only flown. 

Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown. 
To greet thee in the immortal year ! 

Edna Dean Proctor. 



HOW WE LEARN 

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth, 
Such as men give and take from day to day. 

Comes in the common walks of easy life, 
Blown by the careless wind across our way. 

Bought in the market, at the current price. 
Bred of the smile, the jest, perchance the bowl, 

It tells no tale of daring or of worth. 
Nor pierces even the surface of a soul. 

Great truths are greatly won. Not found by chance, 
Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream. 

But grasped in the great struggle of the soul, 
Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream. 

Not in the general mart, 'mid corn and wine. 
Not in the merchandise of gold and gems, 

Not in the world's gay halls of midnight mirth, 
Not 'mid the blaze of regal diadems. 

But in the day of conflict, fear, and grief. 

When the strong hand of God, put forth in might, 



THE BETTER LIFE 381 

Ploughs up the subsoil of the stagnant heart, 

And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the Hght. 

Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours 
Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, 

Truth springs, Uke harvest, from the well-ploughed field, 
And the soul feels it has not wept in vain. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



REAPER OF LIFE'S HARVEST 

Ho, REAPER of life's harvest ! 
Why stand with rusted blade 
Until the night draws round thee 
And the day begins to fade ? 

Why stand ye idle, waiting 

For reapers more to come ? 
The golden morn is passing, 

Why sit ye silent, dumb ? 

Thrust in your sharpened sickle 

And gather in the grain : 
The night is fast approaching, 

And noon will come again. 

The Master calls for reapers, 

And shall He call in vain ? 
Shall sheaves lie there ungathered, 

And waste upon the plain ? 

Mount up the heights of wisdom. 

And crush each error low ; 
Keep back no words of knowledge 

That human hearts should know. 

Be faithful to thy mission 

In service of thy Lord, 
And then a golden chaplet 

Shall be thy just reward. 

Anonymous. 



MEMORIAL HYMN.— J. A. GARFIELD 

Now all ye flowers make room ; 
Hither we come in gloom 
To make a mighty tomb. 

Sighing and weeping. 
Grand was the life he led ; 
Wise was each word he said ; 
But with the noble dead 

We leave him sleeping. 



382 GOLDEN POEMS 

Soft may his body rest 
As on his mother's breast, 
Whose love stands all confessed 

'Mid blinding tears ; 
But may his soul so white 
Rise in triumphant flight, 
And in God's land of light 

Spend endless years. 

David Swing. 



RIPE GRAIN 

O STILL, white face of perfect peace, 
Untouched by passion, freed from pain, — 

He who ordained that work should cease 
Took to Himself the ripened grain. 

O noble face! your beauty bears 
The glory that is wrung from pain, — 

The high, celestial beauty wears 
Of finished work, of ripened grain. 

Of human care you left no trace. 

No lightest trace of grief or pain, — 
On earth an empty form and face — 

In Heaven stands the ripened grain. 

Dora Read Goodale. 

TO-MORROW 

Heaven overarches earth and sea, 

Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness. 
Heaven overarches you and me : 
A little while and we shall be — 
Please God — where there is no more sea 

Nor barren wilderness. 

Heaven overarches you and me, 

And all earth's gardens and her graves. 

Look up with me, until we see 

The day break and the shadows flee. 

What though to-night wrecks you and me 
If so to-morrow saves ? 

Christina G. Rossetti. 

ALL IS WELL 

And all is well, though faith and form 

Be sundered in the night of fear ; 

Well roars the storm to those that hear 
A deeper voice across the storm. 



THE BETTER LIFE 383 

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 

Will be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 

That not one life shall be destroyed, 

Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 

That not a moth with vain desire 

Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 
Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold ! we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 

At last — far off — at last, to all. 
And every winter change to spring. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {In Memoriam). 



PARTED FRIENDS 

Friend after friend departs ; 

Who hath not lost a friend ? 
There is no union here of hearts 

That finds not here an end ! 
Were this frail world our final rest, 
Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time — 
Beyond the reign of death — 

There surely is some blessed clime 
Where life is not a breath ; 

Nor life's affections transient fire. 

Whose sparks fly upward and expire ! 

There is a world above 

Where parting is unknown ! 

A long eternity of love 

Formed for the good alone ; 

And faith beholds the dying here 

Translated to that glorious sphere ! 

Thus star by star declines 
Till all are passed away ; 



384 GOLDEN POEMS 

As morning high and higher shines 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
* But hide themselves in heaven's own Hght. 

James Montgomery. 



PEACE 

Peace, troubled heart 1 the way 's not long before thee. 
Lay down thy burden ; say to sorrow, cease ; 

Be yon soft azure hand serenely o'er thee, - 
The blue, bright border to God's sphere of peace. 

Peace, troubled heart 1 the hasty word may fret thee, 
The cruel word may coldly probe and pierce ; 

The Christ who suffered, loves thee, never leaves thee, 
He pours His balm upon the fever fierce. 

Peace, troubled heart ! though marred thy best behavior, 

To thy deep longing, thine aspiring cry. 
Listens thy Heavenly Kinsmati, thy dear Savior 

Healeth thy life-hurt, wipeth thy tears dry. 

Peace, lonely heart! Be patient. Thou 'It see, waiting, 
How perfect sympathy and love may meet ; 

Be patient, praying ; all earth's discord grating 
Wilt melt at last to love divine, complete. 

Peace, troubled heart ! O coward, weakly shrinking 
Back from the chalice ! Saints and martyrs' meed, 

The chrism of suffering. Earthward, poor souls sinking, 
Yearn for the heavenly joy, through human need. 

Peace, troubled heart ! see yon strong ships all sailing 
Through sun and storm, on to the solemn sea ; 

Through summer calms, through wintry tempest quailing, 
Thus sailest thou, out to Infinity. 

Peace, troubled heart ! beyond these bitter breezes. 

Mid Isles of Paradise, in airs of balm. 
Where cruel wind or word ne'er wounds or freezes, 

Thou 'It gain at last the everlasting calm. 

Peace, troubled heart ! go out beneath the ether ; 

Rest in the marvellous sunshine of the sky ; 
Watch the bees sail and sing in sunny leisure ; 

List the waves laughing as they loiter by. 

Peace, troubled heart ! if minor notes of sadness 
Tremble through Nature's voices, every sigh 

Quickens the anthem of her mightier gladness, 
Foretells fruition perfect by and by. 



THE BETTER LIFE 385 

-Peace, troubled heart ! life's ever mocking seeming, 
Life's weary dearth, life's aching sense of loss, 

Are fitful phantoms of its transient dreaming, 
While Faith stands steadfast gazing on the Cross. 

Mary Clemmer Ames. 



/ SHALL BE SATISFIED 

Not here ! not here ! not where the sparkling waters 
Fade into mocking sands as we draw near ; 

Where in the wilderness each footstep falters — 
I shall be satisfied — but oh ! not here. 

Not here ! where every dream of bliss deceives us, 

Where the worn spirit never gains its goal ; 
Where, haunted ever by the thoughts that grieve us, 

Across us floods of bitter memory roll. 

There is a land where every pulse is thrilling 
With rapture earth's sojourners may not know, 

Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling. 
And peacefully life's time-tossed currents flow. 

Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us. 
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide. 

And of its bliss is naught more wondrous told us 
Than these few words — "I shall be satisfied. " 

Satisfied ! satisfied ! the spirit's yearning 

For sweet companionship with kindred minds — 

The silent love that here meets no returning — 
The inspiration which no language finds — 

Shall they be satisfied ? the soul's vague longing — 
The aching void which nothing earthly fills ? 

Oh, what desires upon my soul are thronging, 
As I look upward to the heavenly hills ! 

Thither my weak and weary steps are tending — 
Savior and Lord ! with thy frail child abide ! 

Guide me towards home, where, all my wanderings ending, 
I then shall see Thee, and "be satisfied." 

Anonymous. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW 

This world is all a fleeting show, 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, — 

There 's nothing true but heaven ! 



386 GOLDEN POEMS 

And false the light on glory's plume, 

As fading hues of even ; 
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom 
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, — 

There 's nothing bright but heaven 1 

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 

From wave to wave we 're driven, 
And fancy's flash and reason's ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way, — 
There 's nothing calm but heaven ! 

Thomas Moore. 



/ TOO 

"Let us spread the sail for purple islands. 

Far in undiscovered tropic seas ; 
Let us track the glimmering arctic highlands 

Where no breath of men, no leaf of trees 
E'er has lived. "^ So speak the elders, telling 

By the hearth, their list of fancies through. 
Heedless of the child whose heart is swelling. 

Till he cries at last, " I too ! I too ! " 

And I, too, O my Father ! Thou hast made me — 

I have life, and life must have its way ; 
Why should love and gladness be gainsaid me ? 

Why should shadows cloud my little day ? 
Naked souls weigh in thy balance even — 

Souls of kings are worth no more than mine ; 
Why are gifts e'er to my brother given. 

While my heart and I together pine ? 

Meanest things that breathe have, with no asking, 

Fullest joys : the one-day's butterfly 
Finds its rose, and, in the sunshine basking, 

Has the whole of life ere it doth die. 
Dove, no sorrow on thy heart is preying ; 

With thy full contentment thou dost coo ; 
Yet, must man cry for a dove's life, saying, 

" Make me as a dove — I too ! I too ! " 

Nay, for something moves within — a spirit 

Rises in his breast, he feels it stir ; 
Soul-joys greater than the doves inherit 

Should be his to feel ; yet, why defer 
To a next world's veiled and far to-morrow 

All his longings for a present bliss ? 
Stones of faith are hard ; oh, could he borrow. 

From that world's great stores one taste for this ! 



THE BETTER LIFE 387 

Hungry stands he by his empty table, 

Thirsty waits beside his empty well — 
Nor with all his striving, is he able 

One full joy to catch where hundreds swell 
In his neighbor's bosom ; see, he sifteth 

Once again his poor life through and through — 
Finds but ashes : is it strange he lifteth 

Up his cry, " O Lord ! I too ! I too ! " 

Constance Fenimore Woolson. 



THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies, 

When hastening fondly home. 
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam ; 
But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delay, 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God 1 from every care 

And -stain of passion free. 
Aloft, through virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to thee ! 
No sin to cloud, — no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs ; — 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way. 

Thy freedom in her wings ! 

Thomas Moore. 



ALL BEFORE 

O HEARTS that never cease to yearn ! 

O brimming tears that ne'er are dried ! 
The dead, though they depart, return 

As though they had not died ! 

The living are the only dead ; 

The dead live — nevermore to die ! 
And often when we mourn them fled, 

They never were so nigh ! 

And though they lie beneath the waves, 
Or sleep within the churchyard dim — 

(Ah ! through how many different graves 
God's children go to him !) — 



388 GOLDEN POEMS 

Yet every grave gives up its dead 
Ere it is overgrown with grass ; - 

Then why should hopeless tears be shed, 
Or need we cry, " Alas " ? 

Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, 
And like a sorrowing mourner craped. 

Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb. 
Whose captives have escaped ? 

'T is but a mound, and will be mossed 
Whene'er the summer grass appears ; 

The loved, though wept, are never lost ; 
We only lose — our tears ! 

Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead 
By bending forward where they are ; 

But Memory, with a backward tread, 
Communes with them afar. 

The joys we lose are but forecast, 

And we shall find them all once more ; 

We look behind us for the Past, 
But lo ! 't is all before ! 



Anonymous. 



UP-HILL 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 

Yes, to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole long day? 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting-place ? 

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my face ? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 

They will not keep you standing at that door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? 

Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 

Yea, beds for all who come. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



THE BETTER LIFE 389 

WHEN 

If I were told that I must die to-morrow, 

That the next sun 
Which sinks would bear me past all fear and sorrow 

For any one, 
All the fight fought, all the short journey through, 

What should I do ? 

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, 

But just go on. 
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter 

Aught that is gone ; 
But rise and move and love and smile and pray 

For one more day. 

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, 

Say in that ear 
Which harkens ever : " Lord, within thy keeping 

How should I fear ? 
And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, 

Do thou thy will. " 

I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender, 

My soul would lie 
All the night long ; and when the morning splendor 

Flushed o'er the sky, 
I think that I could smile — could calmly say, 

" It is His day. " 

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder 

Held out a scroll 
On which my life was writ, and I with wonder 

Beheld unroll 
To a long century's end its mystic clue, 

What should I do ? 

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master, 

Other than this : 
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, 

Nor fear to miss 
The road, although so very long it be. 

While led by Thee ? - 

Step after step, feeling thee close beside me. 

Although unseen. 
Thro' thorns, thro' flowers, whether the tempest hide thee. 

Or heavens serene. 
Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, 

Thy love decay. 



390 GOLDEN POEMS 

I may not know ; my God, no hand revealeth 

Thy counsels wise ; 
Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, 

No voice replies 
To all my questioning thought, the time to tell ; 

And it is well. 

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing 

Thy will always, 
Through a long century's ripening fruition 

Or a short day's ; 
Thou canst not come too soon ; and I can wait 

If thou come late. 

Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge). 



O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE 

O MAY I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence ; live 

In pulses stirred to generosity, 

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 

Of miserable aims that end with self, 

In thoughts subhme that pierce the night like stars. 

And with their mild persistence urge men's minds 

To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven : 
To make undying music in the world, 
Breathing a beauteous order, that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies. 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
That watched to ease the burden of the world, 
Laboriously tracing what must be. 
And what may yet be better, — saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary. 
And shaped it forth before the multitude, 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed with love, — 



THE BETTER LIFE 391 

That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, 
Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 
Which martyred men have made more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. 

May I reach 
That purest heaven,— be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty. 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more intense ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible, 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 

Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot). 



A WISH 

I ASK not that my bed of death 

From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 

For these besiege the latest breath 
Of fortune's favour'd sons, not me. 

I ask not each kind soul to keep 

Tearless, when of my death he hears. 

Let those who will, if any, weep 1 

There are worse plagues on earth than tears. 

I ask but that my death may find 

The freedom to my life denied ; 
Ask but the folly of mankind 

Then, then at last, to quit my side. 

Spare me the whispering, crowded room, 
The friends who come, and gape, and go ; 

The ceremonious air of gloom — 

All, which makes death a hideous show ! 

Nor bring, to. see me cease to live. 
Some doctor full of phrase and fame, 

To shake his sapient head, and give 
The ill he cannot cure a name. 

Nor fetch, to take the accustom' d toll, 
Of the poor sinner bound for death, 

His brother-doctor of the soul. 
To canvass with official breath 



392 GOLDEN POEMS 

The future and its viewless things — 

That undiscover'd mystery 
Which one who feels death's winnowing wings 

Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 

Bring none of these ; but let me be, 

While all around in silence lies. 
Moved to the window near, and see 

Once more, before my dying eyes, 

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 

The wide aerial landscape spread — 
The world which was ere I was born, 

The world which lasts when I am dead ; 

Which never was the friend of owe, 

Nor promised love it could not give, 
But lit for all its generous sun. 

And lived itself, and made us live. 

There let me gaze, till I become 

In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 
To feel the universe my home ; 

To have before my mind — instead 

Of the sick room, the mortal strife. 

The turmoil for a little breath — 
The pure eternal course of life, 

Not human combatings with death ! 

Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow 
Composed, refresh' d, ennobled, clear ; 

Then willing let my spirit go 

To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 

Matthew Arnold. 



LIFE 

Life! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 
But this I know: when thou art fled, 
Where'er they lay^ these limbs, this head, 
No clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
O, whither, whither dost thou fly ? 
Where bend unseen thy trackless course ? 
And, in this strange divorce, 
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound, I ? 



THE BETTER LIFE 393 

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, 

From whence thy essence came, 

Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 

From matter's base encumbering weed? 

Or dost thou, hid from sight. 

Wait, Hke some spell-boimd knight. 

Through blank, oblivious years the appomted hour 

To break thy trance and reassume thy power ? 

Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be ? 

O, say, what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee ? 

Life ! we 've been long together 

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 

'T is hard to part when friends are dear,— 

Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 

Then steal" away, give Httle warning, 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 

Anna Letitia Barbauld. 



A RHYME OF LIFE 

If life be as a flame that death doth kill. 
Burn, little candle, lit for me. 
With a pure flame, that I may rightly see 
To word my song, and utterly 
God's plan fulfil. 

If life be as a flower that blooms and dies, 
Forbid the cunning frost that slays 
With Judas kiss, and trusting love betrays ; 
Forever may my song of praise 
Untainted rise. 

If life be as a voyage, foul or fair. 
Oh, bid me not my banners furl 
For adverse gale, or wave in angry whirl, 
Till I have found the gates of pearl. 
And anchored there. 

Charles Warren Stoddard. 

NOW AND AFTERWARDS 

["Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past."— Russian 

Proverb] 

"Two hands upon the breast. 

And labor 's done ; 
Two pale feet crossed in rest, — 

The race is won ; 



394 GOLDEN POEMS 

Two eyes with coin-weights shut, 

And all tears cease ; 
Two lips where grief is mute, 
Anger at peace " : 
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot ; 
God in his kindness answereth not. 

"Two hands to work addrest 

Aye for his praise ; 
Two feet that never rest 

Walking his ways ; 
Two eyes that look above 
Through all their tears ; 
Two lips still breathing love, 
Not wrath, nor fears": 
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; 
Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these ! 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



REST 

I LAY me down to sleep, 

With little care 
Whether my waking find 

Me here, or there. 

A bowing, burdened head 

That only asks to rest. 
Unquestioning, upon 

A loving breast. 

My good right hand forgets 

Its cunning now ; 
To march the weary march 

I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold 

Nor strong, — all that is past 
I am ready not to do. 

At last, at last. 

My half-day's work is done, 

And this is all my part, — 
I give a patient God 

My patient heart ; 

And grasp his banner still. 

Though all the blue be dim ; 
These stripes as well as stars 

Lead after him, 

Mary Woolsey Rowland. 



THE BETTER LIFE 395 

BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the blooming and the fading 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the shining and the shading. 
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the rising and the setting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the calming and the fretting, 
Beyond remembering and forgetting, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the gathering and the strowing 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the ebbing and the flowing. 
Beyond the coming and the going, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the parting and the meeting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the farewell and the greeting. 
Beyond this pulse's fever beating, 

I shall be soon. ♦ 

Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the frost chain and the fever 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the rock waste and the river, 
Beyond the ever and the never, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



396 GOLDEN POEMS 

, THE SILENT LAND 

Cloudy argosies are drifting down into the purple dark — 

Down into the fading west ; 
And the long low amber reaches lying on the horizon's mark 

Shape themselves into the gateways opening to the Land of Rest, 
Gateways leading thro' the sunset, out into the under world, 
Bright with pilgrim barges lying round the Islands of the Blest, 
With their white sails tranquil furled. 

Pale sea-buds that weep forever, water-lilies damp and cool 

That the heavenly shores adorn. 
And the mystic lotus shining thro' the white waves beautiful, 
Far a peace-emitting fragrance shed through all that tranquil 
bourne ; 
Light the valleys undisquieted with step of mortal tread — 
Bind the white brows of the Living whom all comfortless we 
mourn. 
Whom we blindly call the Dead. 

O ye lost ones ! ye departed ! do ye heed the tears we shed ? 

Speak, and bid our sorrows cease ! 
O beloved ! O Immortals ! O ye dead who are not dead ! 

Are ye near us in our anguish, in our longing for release ? 
Speak to us across the darkness — wave to us a glimmering hand ! 
Tell us but that ye remember, and our souls shall wait in peace, 
Dwellers in the Silent Land ! 

Kate Seymour McLean. 



HEAVEN 

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, 

Beyond death's cloudy portal, 
There is a land where beauty never dies — 

Where love becomes immortal. 

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade, 

Whose fields are ever vernal ; 
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, 

But blooms for aye eternal. 

We may not know how sweet its balmy air, 

How bright and fair its flowers ; 
We may not hear the songs that echo there 

Through those enchanted bowers. 

The city's shining towers we may not see 

With our dim earthly vision, 
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 

That opes the gates elysian. 



THE BETTER LIFE 397 

But sometimes, when adown the western sky 

A j&ery sunset lingers, 
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, 

Unlocked by unseen fingers. 

And while they stand a moment half ajar, 

Gleams from the inner glory 
Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, 

And half reveal the story. 

O land unknown ! O land of love divine ! 

Father, all-wise, eternal. 
Oh, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine 

Into those pastures vernal ! 

Nancy Priest Wakefield. 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL 

Vital spark of heavenly flame. 
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying ; 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away. 
What is this absorbs me quite, 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul ! can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ; 
Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
O grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O death i where is thy sting ? 

Alexander Pope. 



DYING HYMN 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills, 

Recedes and fades away ; 
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 

Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song, — 
My blindness is my sight ; 



398 " GOLDEN POEMS 

The shadows that I feared so long 
Are full of life and light. 

The while my pulses fainter beat, 
My faith doth so abound, 

I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
The green, immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives 
Low as the grave to go ; 

I know that my Redeemer lives — 
That I shall Uve I know. 

The palace walls I almost see 
Where dwells my Lord and King ! 

O grave, where is thy victory ? 
O death, where is thy sting ? 



HEREAFTER 



Alice Gary 



Love, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, 
When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, 
When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us, 
And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed — 

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, 
Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth ; 
Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers, 
Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth. 

That 's our love. But you and I, dear — shall we linger with it yet. 
Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net — 
On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom , 
Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill 
is wet ? 

Or, beloved — if ascending — when we have endowed the world 
With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled. 
Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful, holy 

places, 
With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled ? 

Only this our yearning answers : wheresoe'er that way defile. 
Not a film shall part us through the aeons of that mighty while. 
In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together. 
Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great smile. 

Harriet Prescott Spofford. 



THE BETTER LIFE 399 

AT FIRST 

If I should fall asleep one day, 

All over- worn, 
And should my spirit from the clay 
Go dreaming out the Heavenward way, 

Or thence be softly borne, — 

I pray you, angels, do not first 

Assail mine ear 
With that blest anthem oft rehearsed, — 
"Behold, the bonds of Death are burst," — 

Lest I should faint with fear. 

But let some happy bird at hand 

The silence break : 
So shall I dimly understand 
That dawn has touched a blossoming land, 

And sigh myself awake. 

From that deep rest emerging so 

To lift the head 
And see the bath-flower's bell of snow. 
The pink arbutus, and the low 

Spring-beauty streaked with red, 

Will all suffice — no other where 

Impelled to roam, — 
Till some blithe wanderer, passing fair. 
Will smiling pause, of me aware. 

And murmur, " Welcome home ! " 

So, sweetly greeted, I shall rise 

To kiss her cheek ; 
Then lightly soar in lovely guise. 
As one familiar with the skies. 

Who finds, and need not seek. 

Amanda T. Jones. 

IMMORTALITY 

Oh ! listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks that startling word : 
"Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls ; according harps. 
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 



400 GOLDENPOEMS 

Oh ! listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 

From all the air. 'T is in the gentle moonlight ; 

'T is floating 'mid Day's setting glories ; Night, 

Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 

Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 

Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 

All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 

As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 

By an unseen living Hand, and conscious chords 

Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 

The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 

Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 

To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

Richard Henry Dana 
{The Husband and Wife^s Grave). 



THE IMMORTAL FART 

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
But thou shall flourish in immortal youth. 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements. 
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

Joseph Addison (Cato). 

ODE ON IMMORTALITY 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 

To me did seem 

Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 

Turn wheresoe'er I may. 

By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The rainbow comes and goes. 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look around her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 



THE BETTER LIFE 401 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity. 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
shepherd-boy I 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, " 
The fulness of your bliss — I feel, I feel it all. 

evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning. 

This sweet May morning. 
And the children are culling. 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm ; 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there 's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have looked upon — ■ 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : . . 

Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us, our Hfe's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 

From God, who is our home : 



402 GOLDEN POEMS 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the Hght of common day. 

Behold the child among his new-born bhsses, 
A six-years' darhng of a pigmy size ! 
See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life 
Shaped by himself with newly learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 
And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ! 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part : 
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage," 
With all the persons, down to palsied age. 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim. 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 



THE B.ETTER LIFE 

Haunted forever by the eternal mind,^ — 

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave : 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods hke the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,' 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live ; 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction ; not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and Hberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections. 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to maka 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence ! truths that wake, 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 

Nor man, nor boy. 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 



403 



404 GOLDEN POEMS 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither ; 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so 

bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight. 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind ; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which, having been, must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering ; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Think not of any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are 

won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

William Wordsworth. 



THE BETTER LIFE 4^5 

SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN 

Flowers that have died upon my Sweet, 
Lulled by the rhythmic dancmg beat 

Of her young bosom under you — 
Now will I show you such a thing 
As never through thick buds of Sprmg, 

Betwixt the daylight and the dew, 
The Bird whose being no man knows — 

The voice that waketh all night through, 
Tells to the Rose. 

For lo — a garden place I found, 

Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, 

Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous ; 
And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit 
Tall knights and silken maids, or sit 

With faces bent and amorous ; — 
There, in the heart thereof, and crowned 

With woodbine and amaracus. 
My Love I found. 

Alone she walked ;— ah, well I wis, 
My heart leapt up for joy of this ! 

Then when I called to her her name — 
The name, that like a pleasant thing 
Men's lips remember, murmuring — 

At once across the sward she came ; 
Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, 

And asked ever as she came, 

"Where hast thou stayed ?" 

"Where hast thou stayed ? " she asked, as though 
The long years were an hour ago ; 

But I spake not, nor answered. 
For, looking in her eyes, I saw 
A light not lit of mortal law ; 

And in her clear cheek's changeless red. 
And sweet unshaken speaking, found 

That in this place the Hours were dead. 
And Time was bound. 

"This is well done," she said, "in thee, 
O Love, that thou art come Jo me. 

To this green garden glorious ; 
Now truly shall our life be sped 
In joyance and all goodlihed. 

For here all things are fair to us, 
And none with burden is oppressed, 

And none is poor or piteous, 
For here is Rest. 



4o6 GOLDEN POEMS 

" No formless Future blurs the sky ; 
Men mourn not here with dull, dead eye, 

By shrouded shapes of Yesterday ; 
Betwixt the Coming and the Past 
The flawless life hangs fixen fast 

In one unwearying To-Day, 
That darkens not ; for Sin is shriven, 

Death from the doors is thrust away, 
And here is Heaven." 

At "Heaven" she ceased ; and lifted up 
Her fair head like a flower-cup, 

With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow ; 
Then set I lips to hers, and felt — 
Ah, God ! — the hard pain fade and melt. 

And past things change to painted show ; 
The song of quiring birds outbroke ; 

The lit leaves laughed — sky shook, and lo, 
I swooned — and woke. 

And now, O Flowers — 

Ye that indeed are dead — 
Now for all waiting hours. 
Well am I comforted ; 
For of a surety, now, I see. 

That without dim distress 
Of tears, or weariness. 
My Lady verily awaiteth me ; 
So that until with Her I be. 

For my dear Lady's sake 
I am right fain to make 
Out from my pain a pillow, and to take 
Grief for a golden garment unto me ; 

Knowing that I at last shall stand 
In that green garden-land, 
And in the holding of my dear Love's hand. 
Forget the grieving and the misery. 

Austin Dobson. 

THE DISCOVERER 

I HAVE a little kinsman 
Whose earthly summers are but three, 
And yet a voyager is he 
Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
Than all the peers together ! 
He is a brave discoverer, 
And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 



THE BETTER LIFE 407 

Aye, he has travelled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dark, 
Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 

Suddenly in his fair young hour, 
, Came one who bore a flower 
And laid it in his dimpled hand 

With this command : 
"Henceforth thou art a rover ! 
Thou must make a voyage far. 
Sail beneath the evening star, 
And a wondrous land discover." 
— With his sweet smile innocent 

Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 

From the absent has been heard. 

Who can tell 
How he fares, or answer well 
What the little one has found 
Since he lift us, outward-bound ! 
Would that he might return ! 
Then should we learn 
From the pricking of his chart 
How the skyey roadways part. 
Hush ! does not the baby this way bring. 
To lay beside this severed curl. 

Some starry offering 

Of chrysohte or pearl? 

Ah, no ! not so ! 
We may follow on his track. 

But he comes not back. 

And yet I dare aver 
He is a brave discoverer 
Of climes his elders do not know. 
He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thousand years ; 
More than in the groves is taught 
Or from furthest Indies brought ; 
He knows, perchance, how spirits fare — 
What shapes the angels wear, 
What is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond our reach — 

And his eyes behold 
Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



4o8 GOLDEN POEMS 

THERE IS NO DEATH 

There is no death ! The stars go down 

To rise upon some fairer shore, 
And bright in heaven's jewelled crown 

They shine forevermore. 

There is no death. The dust we tread 
Shall change beneath the summer showers 

To golden grain or mellow fruit 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers. 

The granite rocks disorganize 
To feed the hungry moss they bear ; 

The forest leaves drink daily life 
From out the viewless air. 

There is no death ; the leaves may fall, 
The flowers may fade and pass away — 

They only wait through wintry hours 
The coming of the May. 

There is no death ! An angel form 
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread 

He bears our best loved things away, 
And then we call them "dead. " 

He leaves our hearts all desolate — 
He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers ; 

Transplanted into bliss, they now 
Adorn immortal bowers. 

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones 
Made glad this scene of sin and strife, 

Sings now in everlasting song, 
Amid the tree of life. 

And where he sees a smile so bright. 
Of hearts too pure for taint and vice, 

He bears it to that world of light, 
To dwell in Paradise. 

Born into that undying life, 
They leave us but to come again ; 

With joy we welcome them — the same 
Except in sin and pain. 

And ever near us, though unseen. 
The dear immortal spirits tread ; 

For all the boundless Universe 
Is life — there are no dead. 

Edward Bulwer Lytton. 



THE BETTER LIFE 409 

NO MORE SEA 

There shall be no more sea ; no wild winds bringing 

Their stormy tidings to the rocky strand, 
With its scant grasses, and pale sea-flowers springing 

From out the barren sand. 

No angry wave, from cliff and cavern hoary, 
To hearts that tremble at its mournful lore ; 

Bearing on shattered sail and spar the story 
Of one who comes no more ; 

The loved and lost, whose steps no more may wander 
Where wild gorse sheds its blooms of living gold, 

Nor slake his thirst where mountain rills meander 
Along the heathy wold. 

Never again through flowery dingles wending 

In the hushed stillness of the sacred morn, 
By shady woodpaths where tall poppies, bending. 

Redden the ripening corn. 

'Neath whispering leaves his rosy children gather. 
In the gray hamlet's simple place of graves. 

Round the low tomb where sleeps his white-haired father, 
Far from the noise of waves. 

There shall be no more sea ! No surges sweeping 
O'er love and youth, and childhood's sunny hair ; 

Naught of decay and change, nor voice of weeping, 
Ruffle the fragrant air. 

Of that fair land within whose pearly portal 
The golden hght falls soft on fount and tree ; 

Vexed by no tempest, stretch those shores immortal, 
When there is no more sea. 

Anonymous. 



THE OTHER WORLD 

It lies around us like a cloud — 
A world we do not see ; 

Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
May bring us there to be. 

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ; 

Amid our worldly cares 
Its gentle voices whisper love. 

And mingle with our prayers. 



4IO GOLDEN POEMS 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred, 

And palpitates the veil between 
With breathings almost heard. 

The silence — awful, sweet, and calm — 
They have no power to break ; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 

So near to press they seem, — 
They seem to lull us to our rest. 

And melt into our dream. 

And in the hush of rest they bring 

'T is easy now to see 
How lovely and how sweet a pass 

The hour of death may be ! 

To close the eye and close the ear. 

Rapt in a trance of bliss. 
And gently dream in loving arms 

To swoon to that — from this. 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 

Scarce asking where we are, 
To feel all evil sink away. 

All sorrow and all care. 

Sweet souls around us ! watch us still, 

Press nearer to our side. 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers. 

With gentle helpings glide. 

Let death between us be as naught, 

A dried and vanished stream ; 
Your joy be the reality, 

Our suffering hfe the dream. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



TWO WORLDS 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, 
Whose magic joys we shall not see again ; 

Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering shore. 
Ah, truly breathed we there 
Intoxicating air — 
Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of 
Nevermore. 



THE BETTER LIFE 411 

The lover there drank her delicious breath 
Whose love has yielded since to change or death ; 

The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er. 
Alas ! too soon have fled 
The irreclaimable dead : 
We see them — visions strange — amid the 
Nevermore. 

The merrysome maiden that used there to sing — 

The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling 

To temples long clay-cold : to the very core 

They strike our weary hearts, 

As some vexed memory starts 

From that long faded land — the realm of 

Nevermore. 

It is perpetual summer there. But here 
Sadly may we remember rivers clear, 

And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. 
For brighter bells and bluer, 
For tenderer hearts and truer 
People that happy land — r- the realm of 
Nevermore. 

Upon the frontier of this shadowy land 
We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand : 

What realm lies forward, with its happier store 
Of forests green and deep, 
Of valleys hushed in sleep. 
And lakes most peaceful ? 'T is the land of 
Evermore. 

Very far off its marble cities seem — 

Very far off — beyond our sensual dream — 

Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar ; 
Yet does the turbulent surge 
Howl on its very verge. 
One moment — and we breathe within the 
Evermore. 

They whom we loved and lost so long ago 
Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe — 

Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carolings soar. 
Eternal peace have they ; 
God wipes their tears away ; 
They drink that river of life which flows from 
Evermore. 

Thither we hasten through these regions dim, 
But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim 



412 GOLDEN POEMS 

Shine in the sunset ! On that joyous shore 
Our hghtened hearts shall know 
The life of long ago : 
The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for 
Evermore. 

Mortimer Collins. 



SPIRITUAL COMMUNIONS 

How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold, 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 

Imaginations calm and fair, 

The memory like a cloudless air, 
The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din. 

And doubt beside the portal waits. 

They can but listen at the gates. 
And hear the household jar within. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {In Memoriam). 



THE FUTURE LIFE 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 

The disembodied spirits of the dead. 
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 

And perishes among the dust we tread ? 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given ; 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer. 

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind. 
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 



THE BETTER LIFE 413 

And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 
"Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here ? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past, 
And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, 
Shall it expire with life and be no more ? 

A happier lot than mine, and larger light 
Await thee there ; for thou hast bowed thy will 

In cheerful homage to the rule of right. 
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 

For me,, the sordid cares in which I dwell 

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll ; 

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky. 
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name. 

The same fair, thoughtful brow, and gentle eye. 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home. 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 

The wisdom which is love — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? 

William Cxjllen Bryant. 



OVER THE RIVER 

Over the river they beckon to me — 

Loved ones who 've passed to the further side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view ; 
We saw not the angels who met him there. 

The gates of the city we could not see — 
Over the rivej, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 

Over the river the boatman pale 
Carried another, the household pet ; 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 



414 GOLDEN POEMS 

We felt it glide from the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark ; 

We know she is safe on the further side, 
Where all the ransomed and angels be — 

Over the river, the mystic river, 
My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart, 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye ; 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea, 
Yet, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale. 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before. 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river. 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Nancy Priest Wakefield. 



ONLY WAITING 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown ; 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Till the night of earth is faded 

From the heart once full of day ; 
Till the dawn of heaven is breaking 

Through the twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting till the reapers 

Have the last sheaf gathered home ; 



THE BETTER LIFE 415 

For the summer-time is faded, 

And the autumn winds have come. 
Quickly, reapers, gather quickly 

The last ripe hours of my heart, 
For the bloom of life is withered. 

And I hasten to depart. 

Only waiting till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate. 
At whose feet I long have lingered, 

Weary, poor, and desolate. 
Even now I hear the footsteps, 

And their voices far away ; 
If they call me, I am waiting, 

Only waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown ; 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Then from out the gathered darkness. 

Holy, deathless stars shall rise. 
By whose light my soul shall gladly 

Tread its pathway to the skies. 

Frances Laughton Mace. 



/ WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY 

I WOULD not live alway : I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; 
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; ^ 
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air. 
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair. 
And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. 

I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin. 
Temptation without, and corruption within ; 
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, ^ 
Scarce the victory 's mine ere I 'm captive again. 
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears. 
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs. 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway : no, welcome the tomb ; 
Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom. 



4i6 GOLDENPOEMS 

There, too, is the pillow where Christ bowed his head — 

O, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed 1 

And then the glad morn soon to follow that night. 

When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight, 

And the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise. 

To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. 

Who, who would live alway, away from his God, 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode. 
Where rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet. 
Their Savior and brethren transported to greet, 
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear? 

The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear. 

And see soft unfolding those portals of gold. 

The King all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 

O give me, O give me the wings of a dove ! 

Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above. 

Ay, 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar. 

And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 

William Augustus Muhlenberg. 



NEARER HOME 

One sweetly solemn thought. 

Comes to me o'er and o'er : 
I 'm nearer home to-day 

Than I ever have been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house. 
Where the many mansions be"; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life. 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross. 

Nearer gaining the crown ! 

But lying darkly between. 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream, 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm : 



4>7 



THE BETTER LIFE 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink — 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think, — 

Father, perfect my trust ! 

Let my spirit feel, in death. 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the Rock of a living faith 1 

Phcebe Gary. 



LONGING FOR HOME 

A Song of a Boat. 

There was once a boat on a billow : 
Lightly she rocked to her port remote. 
And the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, 

And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till, a dancing mote, 
She faded out on the moonlit foam. 
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat, 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 

I pray you hear my song of a boat. 

For it is but short : — 
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat. 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore. 

On the open desolate sea ; 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, 

For he came not back to me — 

Ah, me 1 

A Song of a Nest. 

There was once a nest in a hollow, 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed. 

Soft and warm and full to the brim ; 

Vetches leaned over it purple and dim ; 
With buttercup buds to follow. 



4i8 GOLDEN POEMS 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 

That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own — 

Ah, happy, happy I ! 
Right dearly I loved them ; but when they were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew away, 

Far up to the heavenly blue, . 
To the better country, the upper day ; 

And — I wish I was going, too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest ? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet. 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set. 

Now all its hope hat-h failed ? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went. 

And the land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent, 

The only home for me — 

Ah, me ! 

Jean Ingelow (Songs of Seven). 



MINISTRY OF ANGELS 

And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base. 
That may compassion of their evils move ? 
There is . — else much more wretched were the case 
Of men than beasts : but O the exceeding grace 
Of Highest God ! that loves his creatures so. 
And all his works with mercy doth embrace, 
That blessed angels he sends to and fro. 
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe ! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave. 
To come to succor us that succor want ! 
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, 



THE BETTER LIFE 419 

Against fowle feends to ayd us militant ! 
They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, 
And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; 
And all for love, and nothing for reward ; 
Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such regard ! 

Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 



NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ; 
Still all my song shall be, — 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

Though, like the wanderer, 

The sun gone down. 
Darkness be over me, 

My rest a stone ; 
Yet in my dreams I 'd be 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 

Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 

Steps unto heaven ; 
All that thou sendest me 

In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

Then with my waking thoughts. 

Bright v/ith thy praise. 
Out of my stony griefs 

Bethel I '11 raise ; 
So by my woes to be 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 

Nearer to thee ! 

Or if on joyful wing 

Cleaving the sky. 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot. 

Upward I fly ; 
Still all my song shall be — 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 

Nearer to thee. 

Sarah Flower Adams. 



420 GOLDEN POEMS 

THE BETTER WAY 

And didst thou love the race that loved not thee ? 

And didst thou take to heaven a human brow? 
Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea, 

Art thou his kinsman now? 

O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough ! 

man, with eyes majestic after death. 
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, 

Whose lips drawn human breath ! 

By that one likeness which is ours and thine. 
By that one nature which doth hold us kin. 

By that high heaven where, sinless, thou dost shine, 
To draw us sinners in, — 

By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall. 

By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree. 
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, — 

1 pray Thee visit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, 
Die ere the guest adored she entertained — 

Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day. 
Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 

Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night 
Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold. 

Who, wounded, dying, cry to Thee for Hght, 
And cannot find their fold. 

And deign, O watcher with the sleepless brow, 
Pathetic in its yearning — deign reply ; 

Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou 
Wouldst take from such as I ? 

Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust. 
Are there no thorns that compass it about ? 

Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust 
My hands to gather out ? - 

O, if thou wilt, and if such bliss might be. 
It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay ; 

Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me ? 
There is a better way. 

What though unmarked the happy workman toil, 
And break, unthanked of man, the stubborn clod? 

It is enough, for sacred is the soil. 
Dear are the hills of God. 



THE BETTER LIFE 421 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 

Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, 

Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing His glory wrong. 

Jean Ingelow {Honors). 



ABIDE WITH ME 

Abide with me ! fast falls the even-tide ; 
The darkness deepens ; Lord, with me abide 1 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass away ; 
Change and decay in all around I see ; 

Thou who changest not, abide with me ! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word ; 
But as thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord, 
Familiar, condescending, patient, free. 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me ! 

Come, not in terrors, as the King of Kings, 
But kind and good, with healing in thy wings ; 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me ! 

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile ; 
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, 
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee ; 
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me I 

1 need thy presence every passing hour ; 

What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power? 
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be ? 
Through cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me ! 

I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless ; 
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness ; 
Where is Death's sting ? where. Grave, thy victory? 
I triumph still, if thou abide with me ! 

Hold Thou thy cross before my closing eyes ! 
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies ! 
Heaven's morning breaks, and Earth's vain shadows flee ; 
In Life and Death, O Lord, abide with me ! 

Henry Francis Lyte. 



^22 GOLDENPOEMS 

THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE 

O THOU great Friend to all the sons of men, 
Who once appeared in humblest guise below, 

Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain. 

And call thy brethren forth from want and woe, — 

We look to thee ! thy truth is still the Light 
Which guides the nations, groping on their way. 

Stumbling and falHng in disastrous night. 
Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 

Yes ; thou art still the Life, thou art the Way 
The holiest know ; Light, Life, the Way of heaven ! 

And they who dearest hope and deepest pray. 

Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which thou hast given. 

Theodore Parker. 



LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encirchng gloom, 

Lead thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home, — 

Lead thou me on ! 
Keep thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou 

Shouldst lead me on : 
I loved to choose and see my path, but now 

Lead thou me on ! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fear&. 
Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. 

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still 

Will lead me on ; 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone ; 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 

John Henry Newman. 



GOD 

O thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy — all motion guide ; 

Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight. 
Thou only God ! There is no God beside. 



THE BETTER LIFE 423 

Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! 
Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; 

Who fill' St existence with Thyself alone ; 

Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — 
Being whom we call God — and know no more ! 

In its sublime research, Philosophy 

May measure out the ocean deep — may count 
The sands, or the sun's rays ; but, God ! for Thee 

There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount 
Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark. 

Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost ere thought can mount so high. 

Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence. Lord, on Thee 
Eternity had its foundation ; all 

Sprang forth from Thee ; of light, joy, harmony, 
Sole origin — all life, all beauty, Thine. 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! glorious, great, 
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround. 

Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath ! 
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 

And beautifully mingled Life and Death ! 
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, 

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee ! 
And as the spangles in the, sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of Heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise ! 

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; 
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, 

All gay with Hfe, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light, 

A glorious company of golden streams ? 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright ? 

Suns, lighting systems with their joyous beams? 
But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea. 

All this magnificence in Thee is lost ; 
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? 

And what am I, then ? Heaven's unnumbered host, 



424 GOLDEN POEMS 

Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought, 

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 
Against Thy greatness — is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! What am I, then ? Naught. 

Naught ! but the effluence of Thy light divine. 

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, too ; 
Yes, in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine. 

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
Naught ! but I live, and on Hope's pinions fly 

Eager toward Thy presence ; for in Thee 
I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, 

Even to the Throne of Thy divinity ! 

I am, O God ! and surely Thou must be ! 

Thou art ; directing, guiding all, Thou art ! 

Direct my understanding, then, to Thee ! 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 

Though but an atom 'midst immensity. 
Still I am something fashioned by Thy Hand ; 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt Heaven and Earth, 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 

Close to the realm where angels have their birth. 

Just on the boundary of the spirit land ! 

The chain of being is complete in me ; 

In me is matter's last gradation lost. 
And the next step is Spirit — Deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust ; 
A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a God ! 

Whence came I here, and how? So marvellously 
Constructed and conceived? Unknown? This clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

For from itself alone it could not be. 

Creator ! Yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me. Thou source of life and good ; 

Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ; 

Thy light. Thy love, in their bright plenitude. 

Filled me with an immortal soul to spring 
O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere — 
Even to its source — to Thee, its Author — there. 

O thought ineffable ! O vision blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. 

And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 



THE BETTER LIFE 425 

God 1 thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; 

Thus seek Thy presence, Being wise and good ! 
'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore ; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 

John *Bowring {From the Russian of Derzhaven) . 



THE ETERNAL 

The One remains, the many change and pass ; 
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly ; 
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music — words are weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! 
A light is passed from the revolving year. 
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near : 
'T is Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 
No more let Life divide what Death can join together. 

That Light whose smile kindles the universe. 
That beauty in which all things work and move, 
That benediction which the eclipsing curse 
Of birth can quench not that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast, and earth and air and sea, 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven : 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
While, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star. 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (Adonais). 



426 GOLDEN POEMS 

MUTABILITY 

When I bethink me on that speech whyleare 
Of Mutability, and well it way, 
Me seemes, that though she all unworthy were 
Of the heav'ns rule, yet, very sooth to say, 
In all things else she bears the greatest sway ; 
Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle, 
And love of things so vaine to cast away ; 
Whose flow'ring pride, so fading and so fickle. 
Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle I 

Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd. 
Of that same time when no more change shall be. 
But steadfast rest of all things, firmely stayd 
Upon the pillours of Eternity, 
That is contrayr to Mutabilitie ; 
For all that moveth doth in change delight. 
But thenceforth all shall rest eternally 
With him that is the God of Sabaoth hight ; 
O thou great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabbath's sight ! 

Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



PART XI 



*^More poets yet!" — I hear him say, 
Arming his heavy hand to slay ; — 
^^ Despite my skill and ^swashing blow,' 
They seem to sprout where'er I go ; — 
/ killed a host but yesterday I " 

Slash on, O Hercules I You may : 
Your task 's at best a Hydra-fray ; 
And though you cut, not less will grow 
More Poets yet ! 

Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May ? 
Who shall out-blot the morning glow, — 
Or stem the full heart's overflow ? 
Who ? There will rise, till Time decay. 
More Poets yetl - 



PART XI 
SCATTERED LEAVES 



MUSIC IN CAMP 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 
Where Rappahannock's waters 

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its high embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to quiver ; 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. - 

And now where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender ; 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks ; 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," 

And one was gray with "Rebels." 

Then all was still ; and then the band, 
With movement light and tricksy, 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Reverberate with "Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 
429 



430 GOLDEN POEMS 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause ; and then again 

The trumpet pealed sonorous, 
And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain 

To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 
To kiss the shining pebbles ; _ . 

Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 
Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood 

Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ; 
All silent now the Yankees stood. 

All silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing. 
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy. 
The cottage 'neath the live oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold or warm, his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But Memory, waked by Music's art, 

Expressed in simplest numbers. 
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart — 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines — 

That bright celestial creature — 
Who still 'mid War's embattled lines 

Gave this one touch of Nature. 

John R. Thompson. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 431 

BEFORE THE GATE 

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter, 

To fitful song and jest, 
To moods of soberness as idle, after. 

And silences, as idle too as the rest. 

But when at last upon their way returning. 

Taciturn, late, and loath, 
Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, 

They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered both. 

Her heart was troubled with a subtle anguish 

Such as but women know 
That wait, and, lest love speak, or speak not, languish, 

And what they would, would rather they would not so ; 

Till he said, — man-like, nothing comprehending 

Of all the wondrous guile 
That women won win themselves with, and bending 

Eyes, of relentless asking on her the while,— 

"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united 

Our steps as far as death. 
And I might open it ! — " His voice, affrighted 

At his own daring, faltered under his breath. 

Then she — whom both his faith and fear enchanted 
. Far beyond words to tell. 
Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted 

The art he had that knew to blunder so well — 

Slyly drew near a little step, and mocking, 

" Shall we not be too late 
For tea ? " she said ; " I 'm quite worn out with walking : 

Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you — open the gate ? " 

William Dean Hov^^ells. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase ! ) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head. 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord. 



432 GOLDEN POEMS 

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low, 
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then. 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great awakening light. 
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 



CLEON AND I 

Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I ; 
Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I ; 
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I ; 
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I. 

Cleon true possesseth acres, but the landscape I ; 
Half the charms to me it yieldeth, money cannot buy. 
Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, freshening vigor I ; 
He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I. 

Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I ; 
Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I ; 
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die ; 
Death may come, he '11 find me ready, — happier man am I. 

Cleon sees no charms in nature, in a daisy I ; 
Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky ; 
Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I ; 
State for state, with all attendants, who would change ? 
. Not I. 

Charles Mackay. 



THE AGE OF WISDOM 

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear. 

All your wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year ! 



SCATTERED LEAVES 



433 



Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear, — 

Then you know a boy is an ass, 

Then you know the worth of a lass. 
Once you have come to Forty Year. 

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare. 
All good fellows whose beards are gray, 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 
The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 

May pray and whisper, and we not list, 

Or look away and never be missed, 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian 's dead, God rest her bier ; 

How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
Marian 's married ; but I sit here 
Alone and merry at Forty Year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



THE LAST LEAF 

I SAW him once before. 
As he passed by the door ; 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of time 

Cut him down. 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets. 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan. 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
And it seems as if he said, 
"They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips that he has pressed 
In their bloom ; 



434 



GOLDEN POEMS 

And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady I she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff ; 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here, 
But the old three-cornered hat. 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring. 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE 

'T WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry ; 
His form was bent, and his gait was slow, 
His long, thin hair was as white as snow ; 

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye, 
And he sang every night as he went to bed, 

" Let us be happy down here below ; 
The living should live, though the dead be dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He taught his scholars the rule of three. 

Writing, and reading, and history too ; 
He took the little ones up on his knee. 
For a kind old heart in his breast had he, 
And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 



SCATTERED LEAVES 435 

" Learn while you 're young, " he often said, 
" There is much to enjoy down here below ; 

Life for the hving, and rest for the dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, 

Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
The rod was hardly known in his school ; 
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule. 

And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
Besides, it was painful, he sometimes said. 

"We should make life pleasant down here below, 
The living need charity more than the dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 

With roses and woodbine over the door ; 
His rooms were quiet and neat and plain. 
But a spirit of comfort there held reign. 

And made him forget he was old and poor. 
"I need so little," he often said, 

"And my friends and relatives here below 
Won't litigate over me when I am dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 

Were the sociable hours he used to pass. 
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, 
Making an unceremonious call, 

Over a pipe and a friendly glass ; — 
This was the finest pleasure, he said. 

Of the many he tasted here below ; 
"Who has no cronies had better be dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 

Melted all over in sunshiny smiles ; — 
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace. 

Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles ; — 
"I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 

"I've lingered a long while here below ; 
But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled 1 " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 

Every night when the sun went down, 
While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 
Leaving its tenderest kisses there 

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown ; 



436 GOLDEN POEMS 

And feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, 
'T was a glorious world down here below ; 

"Why wait for happiness till we are dead?" 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He sat at his door one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west, 
And the lingering beams of golden light 
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, 

While the odorous night- wind whispered "Rest !" 
Gently, gently he bowed his head, — 

There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
He was sure of happiness, living or dead. 

This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

George Arnold. 



DANIEL GRAY 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 

In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

I knew him well ; in truth, few knew him better ; 

For my young eyes oft read for him the Word, 
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter 

He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his freight of gratitude. 

Nor was he called upon among the gifted. 
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases. 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes ; 

And I suppose that in his prayers and graces, 
I 've heard them all at least a thousand times. 

I see him now — his form, his face, his motions. 
His homespun habit, and his silver hair, — 

And hear the language of his trite devotions. 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint !" 

And how the "conquering-and-to-conquer" rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve him : 
He never kissed his children --- so they say ; 



SCATTERED LEAVES 437 

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the way. 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 

And righteous words for sin of every kind ; 

Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
Were linked so closely in his honest mind. 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty. 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress, 

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him ; 

And I am told that when his Charlie died. 
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him 

From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charlie, 
They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair. 

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, 

And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. 

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, 

Strictly attendant on the means of grace. 
Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling. 

Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer ; 

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way 
His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, 

Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit, 

Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 
And his Redeemer called him to inherit 

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. 

So, if I ever win the home in heaven 
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 

In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



/ 'ilf GROWING OLD 

My days pass pleasantly away ; 

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep ; 
I feel no symptoms of decay ; 

I have no cause to mourn or weep; 



438 GOLDEN POEMS 

My foes are impotent and shy ; 

My friends are neither false nor cold ; 
And yet, of late I often sigh, 
I 'm growing old ! 

- My growing talk of olden times. 
My growing thirst for early news, 
My growing apathy to rhymes, 

My growing love of easy shoes. 
My growing hate of crowds and noise, 

My growing fear of taking cold, 
All whisper in the plainest voice, 
I 'm growing old ! 

I 'm growing fonder of my staff ; 

I 'm growing dimmer in the eyes ; 
I 'm growing fainter in my laugh ; 

I 'm growing deeper in my sighs ; 
I 'm growing careless of my dress ; 

I 'm growing frugal of my gold ; 
I 'm growing wise ; I 'm growing — yes — 
I'm growing old! 

I see it in my changing taste ; 

I see it in my changing hair ; 
I see it in my growing waist ; 

I see it in my growing heir ; 
A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 

As plain as truth was ever told, 
That, even in my vaunted youth, 
I 'm growing old ! 

Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 

The tale in my reluctant ears. 
And every boon the hours bequeath 

But makes me debtor to the years ! 
E'en flattery's honeyed words declare 

The secret she would fain withhold, 
And tells me in "How young you are ! " 
I 'm growing old ! 

Thanks for the years ! — whose rapid flight 

My sombre muse too sadly sings ; 
Thanks for the gleams of golden light 

That tint the darkness of their wings ! 
The light that beams from out the sky. 

Those heavenly mansions to unfold, 
Where all are blest, and none may sigh 
"I 'm growing old !" 

John Godfrey Saxe. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 

WILD OATS 

When all the world is young, lad, 

And all the trees are green, 
And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen. 
Then fly for boot and horse, lad. 

And round the world away ; 
Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad. 

And all the trees are brown. 
And all the sport is stale, lad. 

And all the wheels run down. 
Come home and take your place there 

The spent and maimed among ; 
God grant you find a face there 

You loved when you were young ! 

Charles Kingsley. 

THE WATER THAT HAS PASSED 

Listen to the water-mill, 

Through the live-long day. 
How the clanking of the wheels 

Wears the hours away ! 
Languidly the Autumn wind 

Stirs the greenwood leaves ; 
From the fields the reapers sing, 

Binding up the sheaves ; 
And a proverb haunts my mind, 

As a spell is cast : 
" The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Take the lesson to thyself. 

Living heart and true ; 
Golden years are fleeting by. 

Youth is passing too ; 
Learn to make the most of life, 

Lose no happy day ; 
Time will never bring thee back 

Chances swept away. 
Leave no tender word unsaid. 

Love while life shall last — 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that is past," 

Work while yet the daylight shines, 
Man of strength and will ; 



439 



440 GO LDEN POEMS 

Never does the streamlet glide 

Useless by the mill. 
Wait not till to-morrow's sun 

Beams upon the way ; 
All that thou canst call thine own 

Lies in thy to-day. 
Power, intellect, and health 

May not, cannot last ; 
" The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Oh, the wasted hours of life 

That have drifted by ; 
Oh, the good we might have done, 

Lost without a sigh ; 
Love that we might once have saved 
^ By a single word ; 
Thoughts conceived, but never penned, 

Perishing unheard. 
Take the proverb to thine heart. 

Take ! oh, hold it fast ! — 
"The mill v/ill never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Sarah Doudney. 



THE IVY GREEN 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, 

That creepeth o 'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween. 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 

And a staunch old heart has he ; 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend the huge oak-tree 1 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves, 
As he joyously hugs and crawleth around 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where grim death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 441 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 

And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant, in its lonely days, 

Shall fatten upon the past ; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Charles Dickens. 

SWEET CLOVER 

Within what weeks the melilot 

Gave forth its fragrance, I, a lad, 
Or never knew or quite forgot. 

Save that 't was while the year is glad. 

Now know I that in bright July 

It blossoms ; and the perfume fine 
Brings back my boyhood, until I 

Am steeped in memory as with wine. 

Now know I that the whole year long. 
Though Winter chills or Summer cheers, 

It writes along the weeks its song, 
Even as my youth sings through my years. 

Wallace Rice. 

A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME 

Oh, where will be the birds that sing, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The flowers that now in beauty spring, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The rosy lip, the lofty brow. 
The heart that beats so gaily now, 
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, 
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, 

A hundred years to come ? 

Who '11 press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Who '11 tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth. 
And childhood with its brow of truth ; 
The rich and poor, on land and sea. 
Where will the mighty millions be 

A hundred years to come ? 



442 GOLDEN POEMS 

We all within our graves shall sleep 

A hundred years to come ! 
No living soul for us will weep 

A hundred years to come ! 
But other men our lands shall till, 
And others then our streets will fill, 
While other birds will sing as gay, 
As bright the sunshine as to-day, 

A hundred years to come ! 

William Goldsmith Brown. 



VERTUE 

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and skie ; 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angrie and brave. 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever in its grave. 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
My musick shows ye have your closes. 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and vertuous soul. 

Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



WHERE LIES THE LAND 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck 's smooth face. 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ! 
Or, o 'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave. 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 



443 



Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



A FAREWELL 

My fairest child, I have no song to give to you ; 
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long : 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever, 
One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley. 



AFTER THE BALL 

They sat and combed their beautiful hair. 

Their long bright tresses, one by one, 
As they laughed and talked in the chamber there. 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille ; 

Idly they laughed, like other girls. 
Who, over the fire, when all is still. 

Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robes of satin and Brussels lace, 

Knots of flowers and ribbons too ; 
Scattered about in every place. 

For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white. 
The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 
For the revel is done ; 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair. 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, 
Till the fire is out in the chamber there. 

And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill. 

All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, 

While the fire is out and the house is still, 

Maud and Madge together, — • 



444 GOLDEN POEMS 

Maud and Madge in robes of white, 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
Curtained away from the chilly night, 
After the revel is done, — 

Float along in a splendid dream. 

To a golden gittern's tinkling tune. 
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 
In a palace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces. 
Tropical odors sweeter than musk. 
Men and women with beautiful faces 

And eyes of tropical dusk, — 

And one face shining out like a star. 

One face haunting the dreams of each, 
And one voice sweeter than others are. 
Breaking in silvery speech, — 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom. 

An old, old story over again. 
As down the royal bannered room, 

To the golden gittern's strain, 

Two and two, they dreamily walk. 

While an unseen spirit walks beside, 
And, all unheard in the lovers' talk. 

He claimed one for a bride. 

O Maud and Madge ! dream on together, 

With never a pang of jealous fear ; 
For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb. 

Braided brown hair, and golden tress. 
There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press ; 

Only one for the bridal pearls. 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace — 
Only one to blush through her curls 

At the sight of a lover's face. 

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white. 

For you the revel has just begun ; 
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night 

The revel of life is done ! 
But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, 

Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
O beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss 

The kisses another hath won ! 

Nora Perry. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 445 

THE OLD SERGEANT 
[January i, 1863.] 

The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 

With which he used to go, 
Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New Years 

That are now beneath the snow : 

For the same awful and portentous Shadow 

That overcast the earth, 
And smote the land last year with desolation, 

Still darkens every hearth. 

And the Carrier hears Beethoven^ s mighty death-march 

Come up from every mart ; 
And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom, 

And beating in his heart. 

And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten veteran, 

Again he comes along. 
To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles 

In another New Year's song. 

And the song is his, but not so with the story ; 

For the story, you must know. 
Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon Austin, 

By a soldier of Shiloh : 

By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, 

With his death-wound in his side ; 
And who told the story to the Assistant-Surgeon, 

On the same night that he died. 

But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, 

If all should deem it right. 
To tell the story as if what it speaks of 

Had happened but last night. 

" Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you ; let me take the cup ; 
Draw your chair up, — draw it closer ; just another little sup ! 
May be you think I 'm better ; but I 'm pretty well used up,— 
Doctor, you 've done all you could do, but I 'm just a-going up 1 

" Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to 

try"— 
" Never say that, " said the Surgeon, as he smothered down a 

sigh ; 
" It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die ! " 
" What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you come 

to die. 



446 GOLDEN POEMS 

" Doctor, what has been the matter ? " " You were very faint, 

they say ; 
You must try to get to sleep now. " " Doctor, have I been 

away ? " 
"Not that anybody knows of ! " "Doctor — Doctor, please to 

stay ! 
There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long to 

stay ! 

" I have got my marching orders, and I 'm ready now to go ; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted ? — but it couldn't ha' been so. 
For as sure as I 'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, 
I 've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh ! 

"This is all that I remember : The last time the Lighter came, 
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the 

same, 
He had not been gone five minutes before something called my 

name : 
' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — just that way it 

called my name. 

"And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow. 
Knew it couldn't be the Lighter, he could not have spoken so, 
And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir ! ' but I couldn 't make it go ; 
For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it go. 

" Then I thought : It 's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a 

bore ; 
Just another foolish grape-vine — and it won't come any more ; 
But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as before : 
* Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — even louder than 

before. 

" That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light. 
And I stood beside the River, where we stood that Sunday night. 
Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, 
When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite ! — 

"And the same old palpitation came again in all its power, 

And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial Tower ; 

And the same mysterious voice said : ' It is tele Eleventh 
Hour!' 

' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton — It is the Elev- 
enth Hour ! ' 

"Dr. Austin ! — what day is this?" "It is Wednesday night, you 

know." 
"Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's and a right good time 

below ! 



SCATTERED LEAVES 447 

What time is it, Dr. Austin ? " " Nearly Twelve. " " Then 

don 't you go ! 
Gan it be that all this happened — all this — not an -hour ago ! 

" There was where the gunboats opened on the dark rebellious 

host ; 
And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the coast ; 
There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their 

ghost ! 
And the same old transport came and took me over — or its ghost ! 

" And the old field lay before me, all deserted, far and wide ; 
There was where they fell on Prentiss — there McClernand met 

the tide ; 
There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurlbut's 

heroes died, — 
Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charging 

till he died. 

" There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the 

canny kin. 
There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rousseau 

waded in ; 
There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began to win — 
There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began to win. 

" Now, a shroud of snow and silence over everything was spread ; 
And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head, 
I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was dead, — 
For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead! 

"Death and silence ! — Death and silence ! all around me as I 

sped ! 
And behold, a mighty Tower, as if buiided to the dead. 
To the Heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty head. 
Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving from its 

head ! 

"Round and mighty based it towered up into the infinite — 
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright ; 
For it shone like solid sunshine ; and a winding stair of light 
Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight ! 

" And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and dazzled 

stare, — 
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great Stair, — 
Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — * Halt ! and who goes 

there ?' 
'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.' 'Then advance, sir, to the 

Stair ! ' 



448 GOLDEN POEMS 

" I advanced ! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne ! 
First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line ! 

* Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome ! Welcome by that coun- 

tersign ! ' 
And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine. 

"As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the 

grave ; 
But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and bloodless 

glaive : 

* That 's the way, sir, to Headquarters.' * What Headquarters ? * 

' Of the Brave.' 

* But the great Tower ? ' ' That was builded of the great deeds 

of the Brave ! ' 

''Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light ; 
At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and bright ; 
'Ah ! ' said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to-night ! 
Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night ! ' 

"And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and 

I . . . . 
Doctor — did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! — God bless you all ! 

Good-bye ! 
Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I die, 
To my son — my son that 's coming, — he won 't get here till I die ! 

" Tell him his old father blessed him — as he never did before, — 

And to carry that old musket" .... Hark ! a knock is at the 
door ! . . . . 

"Till the Union" .... See ! it opens! .... "Father! Fath- 
er ! speak once more !".... 

"Bless you!" — gasped the old gray Sergeant. And he lay and 
said no more ! 

Byron Forceythe Willson. 



THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE 

How little recks it where men lie. 

When once the moment 's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last, — 
Whether beneath the sculptured urn 

The coffined form shall rest, 
Or in its nakedness return 

Back to its mother's breast I 



SCATTERED LEAVES 4.49 

Death is a common friend or foe, 

As different men may hold, 
And at his summons each must go, 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the spirit, free and warm, 

Deserts it, as it must, 
What matter where the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust ? 

The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 

Upon the battle-plain. 
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 

Above the gory slain ; 
But though his corse be grim to see, 

Hoof -trampled on the sod. 
What recks it, when the spirit free 

Has soared aloft to God ? 

The coward's dying eyes may close 

Upon his downy bed. 
And softest hands his limbs compose, 

Or garments o 'er them spread : 
But ye who shun the bloody fray. 

Where fall the mangled brave. 
Go strip his coffin-lid away. 

And see him in his grave ! 

'T were sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, 

With those we cherish near. 
And, wafted upward by their sighs. 

Soar to some calmer sphere : 
But whether on the scaffold high. 

Or in the battle's van, 
The fittest place where man can die 

Is where he dies for man ! 

Michael Joseph Barry. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would. 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 



4SO GOLDEN POEMS 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I 've heard bells chiming 
Full many a cHme in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine. 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I Ve heard bells tolling 
"Old Adrian's Mole "in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 

But the sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly ; — 
O, the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There 's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk O 
In St. Sophia 

The Turkman gets. 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 



SCATTERED LEAVES 451 

From the tapering summit 
Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem 

More dear to me, — 
'T is the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony (Father Prout). 



SONG OF THE FORGE 

Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; 
Clang, clang 1 a hundred hammers swing ; 
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky. 
The mighty blows still multiply, — 

Clang, clang ! 
Say, brothers of the dusky brow, 
What are your strong arms forging now ? 

Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now, — 
The coulter of the kindly plough. 

Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil ! 
May its broad furrow still unbind 
To genial rains, to sun and wind, 

The most benignant soil ! 

Clang, clang! our coulter's course shall be 
On many a sweet and sheltered lea. 

By many a streamlet's silver tide ; 
Amid the song of morning birds. 
Amid the low of sauntering herds. 
Amid soft breezes, which do stray 
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 

Along the green hillside. 

When regal Autumn's bounteous hand 
With wide-spread glory clothes the land, — 

When to the valleys, from the brow 
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
A ruddy sea of living gold, — 

We bless, we bless the plough. 

Clang, clang I — again, my mates, what glows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? 
Clink, clank I — we forge the giant chain 



452 GOLDEN POEMS 

Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 
'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides : 

Secured by this, the good ship braves 

The rocky roadstead, and the waves 
Which thunder on her sides. 

Anxious no more the merchant sees 
The mist drive dark before the breeze, 

The storm-cloud on the hill ; 
Calmly he rests, — though far away. 
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay, 

Reliant on our skill. 

Say on what sands these links shall sleep ; 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? 
By Afric's pestilential shore? 
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar, — 
By many a palmy western isle. 
Basking in Spring's perpetual smile? 
By stormy Labrador ? 

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 
When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ; 
Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 

For death or victory ? 

Hurrah ! — Cling, clang ! — once more, what glows, 
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 

The iron tempest of your blows. 
The furnace's red breath? 

Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured 

Around and up in the dusky air. 
As our hammers forge the Sword. 

The Sword ! — a name of dread ; yet when 
Upon the freeman 's thigh 't is bound,— 

While for his altar and his hearth, 

While for the land that gave him birth. 
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, — 

How sacred is it then ! 

Whenever for the truth and right' 
It flashes in the van of fight, — 
Whether in some wild mountain pass, 
As that where fell Leonidas ; 
Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
A Marston or a Bannockburn ; 



SCATTERED LEAVES 453 

Or amid crags and bursting rills, 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 
Or as, when sank the Armada's pride, 
It gleams above the stormy tide, — 

Still, still, when 'er the battle word 
Is Liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land, 

Then Heaven bless the Sword. 

Anonymous. 



THE BABE 

Naked on parent's knees, a new-born child, 
Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled : 
So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep. 
Thou then mayst smile while all around thee weep. 

Sir William Jones. 



APPLE BLOSSOMS 

I SIT beneath the apple-tree, 

I see nor sky nor sun ; 
I only know the apple-buds 

Are opening one by one. 

You asked me once a little thing — 

A lecture or a song 
To hear with you ; and yet I thought 

To find my whole life long 

Too short to bear the happiness 
That bounded through the day, 

That made the look of apple blooms, 
And you and me and May ! 

For long between us there had hung 
The mist of love's young doubt ; 

Sweet, shy, uncertain, all the world 
Of trust and May burst out. 

I wore the flowers in my hair. 

Their color on my dress ; 
Dear love ! whenever apples bloom 

In heaven, do they bless 

Your heart with memories so small. 

So strong, so cruel, glad? 
If ever apples bloom in heaven, 

I wonder are you sad ? 



454 GOLDEN POEMS 

Heart ! yield up thy fruitless quest, 

Beneath the apple tree ; 
Youth comes but once, love only once, 

And May but once to thee ! 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward. 

PICTURES OF MEMORY 

Among the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all ; 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe ; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 

And stealing their golden edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother. 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep : 
Light as the down of the thistle. 

Free as the winds that blow. 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And, one of the Autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 
Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace. 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face ; 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty. 

Asleep by the gates of light. 

Therefore of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. Alice Gary. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 455 

WOMAN 

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung, 
Not she denied him with unholy tongue ; 
She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave, 
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave. 

Eaton Stannard Barrett. 

ANNABEL LEE 

It was many and many a year ago. 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee, — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of cloud-land, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre, 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea. 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night. 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we. 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 



456 GOLDEN POEMS 

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, all the night -tide I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, 

In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



OLD TIMES 

" 'T WAS thirty years ago, and now 

We meet once more," I sighed and said, 

"To talk of Eton and old times ; 

But every second word is 'Dead ! ' " 

We fill the glass, and watch the wine 

Rise, as thermometers will do. 
Then rouse the fire into a blaze. 

And once more, boys, we share the glow. 

" Do you remember Hawtrey's time ? 
Pod Major, and the way he read ? 
And Powis and Old Stokes ? Alas ! 
Our every second word is ' Dead ! ' " 

Well, springs must have their autumns too, 
And suns must set as they must shine ; 

And, waiter, here, a bottle more, 
And let it be your oldest wine. 

And gather closer to the fire, 

And let the gas flare overhead ; 
Some day our children will meet thus. 

And they will praise or blame the Dead. 

Anonymous. 



A WOMAN'S LOVE_^ 

A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory. 
Heard this shrill wail ring out from purgatory : 
" Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story ! 

"I loved, — and blind with passionate love, I fell ; 
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell ; 
For God is just, and death for sin is well. 

" I do not rage against his high decree, 
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
But for my love on earth who mourns for me. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 457 

" Great Spirit ! Let me see my love again 
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain 
To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." 

Then said the pitying angel, ' ' Nay, repent 
That wild vow ! Look, the dial finger 's bent 
Down to the last hour of thy punishment 1 " 

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go ! 
I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. 
Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe I " 

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 
And upward, joyous, like a rising star, 
She rose and vanished in the ether far. 

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, 
And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing. 
She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. 

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea 

Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 

She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me ! " 

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin ! 
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
To expiate my sorrow and my sin." 

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher ! 
To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire." 



John Hay. 



FISHING SONG 



Down in the wide gray river 
The current is sweeping strong ; 

Over the wide gray river 
Floats the fisherman's song. 

The oar-stroke times the singing. 
The song falls with the oar ; 

And an echo in both is ringing, 
I thought to hear no more. 

Out of a deeper current. 
The song brings back to me 

A cry from mortal silence, 
Of mortal agony. 

Life that was spent and vanished, 
Love that had died of wrong, 

Hearts that are dead in living, 

Come back in the fisherman's song. 



458 GOLDENPOEMS 

I see the maples leafing, 

Just as they leafed before, 
The green grass comes no greener 

Down to the very shore — 

With the rude strain swelling, sinking, 
In the cadence of days gone by. 

As the oar, from the water drinking. 
Ripples the mirrored sky. 

Yet the soul hath life diviner : 

Its past returns no more, 
But in echoes, that answer the minor 

Of the boat-song from the shore. 

And the ways of God are darkness ; 

His judgment waiteth long ; 
He breaks the heart of a woman 

With a fisherman's careless song. 

Rose Terry Cooke. 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 

A LIFE on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep ; 
Where the scattered waters rave, 

And the winds their revels keep ! 
Like an eagle caged I pine 

On this dull, unchanging shore : 
Oh, give me the flashing brine. 

The spray and the tempest's roar ! 

Once more on the deck I stand 

Of my own swift -gliding craft : 
Set sail ! farewell to the land ; 

The gale follows fair abaft. 
We shoot through the sparkling foam. 

Like an ocean-bird set free, — 
Like the ocean-bird, our home 

We '11 find far out on the sea.- 

The land is no longer in view. 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 
But with a stout vessel and crew. 

We'll say. Let the storm come down ! 
And the song of our hearts shall be. 

While the wind and the waters rave, 
A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave ! 

Epes Sargent. 



SCATTERED LEAVES ^ 459 

ALONE BY THE BAY 

He is gone, O my heart, he is gone ; 

And the sea remains, and the sky ; 
And the skiffs flit in and out, 

And the white-winged yachts go by. 

And the waves run purple and green. 

And the sunshine glints and glows, 
And freshly across the Bay 

The breath of the morning blows. 

I liked it better last night. 

When the dark shut down on the main. 
And the phantom fleet lay still, 

And I heard the waves complain. 

For the sadness that dwells in my heart, 

And the rune of their endless woe. 
Their longing and void and despair, 

Kept time in their ebb and flow. 

LomsE Chandler Moulton. 



THE TEMPEST 

We were crowded in the cabin. 
Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 

It was midnight on the waters 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'T is a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast. 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, "Cut away the mast ! " 

So we shuddered there in silence, — 
For the stoutest held his breath. 

While the hungry sea was roaring, 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 
Each one busy in his prayers, 

" We are lost ! " the captain shouted. 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered. 

As she took his icy hand, 
" Isn't God upon the ocean 

Just the same as on the land ? " 



460 ^. GOLDEN POEMS 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 

And we spoke in better cheer, 
And we anchored safe in harbor 

When the morn was shining clear. 

James Thomas Fields. 



MY MOTHER 

Bright flag at yonder tapering mast, 

Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as freedom's eagle flew ! 
Strain home ! O lithe and quivering spars : 
Point home, my country's flag of stars ! 
My mother, in thy prayer to-night 

There come new words and warmer tears ; 
On long, long darkness breaks the light. 

Comes home the loved, the lost for years. 
Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! 

Fear not to-night, or storm or sea : 
The ear of heaven bends low to her I 

He sails to shore who sails with me. 
The wind-tossed spider needs no token 

How stands the tree when lightnings blaze ; 
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, 

I know my mother lives and prays. 
Nathaniel Parker Willis {Lines on Leaving Europe), 

AT SEA 

The night was made for cooling shade, 

For silence, and for sleep ; 
And when I was a child, I laid 
My hands upon my breast, and prayed. 

And sank to slumbers deep : 
Childlike as then I lie to-night. 
And watch my lonely cabin-light. 

Each movement of the swaying lamp 

Shows how the vessel reels : 
And o'er her deck the billows tramp. 
And all her timbers strain and cramp 

With every shock she feels ; 
It starts and shudders, while it burns. 
And in its hinged socket turns. 

Now swinging slow and slanting low, 
It almost level lies ; 



SCATTERED LEAVES 461 

And yet I know, while to and fro 
I watch the seeming pendule go 

With restless fall and rise, 
The steady shaft is still upright, 
Poising its little globe of hght. 

hand of God ! O lamp of peace ! 

O promise of my soul ! 
Though weak, and tossed, and ill at ease, 
Amid the roar of smiting seas, 

The ship's convulsive roll, 

1 own with love and tender awe 
Yon perfect type of faith and law. 

A heavenly trust my spirit calms. 

My soul is filled with light ; 
The Ocean sings his solemn psalms. 
The wild winds chant : I cross my palms, 

Happy as if to-night 
Under the cottage .roof again 
I heard the soothing summer rain. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 

IN THE SEA 

The salt wind blows upon my cheek, 

As it blew a year ago. 
When twenty boats were crushed among 

The rocks of Norman's woe : 
'T was dark then ; 't is light now. 

And the sails are leaning low. 

In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er 

And find a face not his, 
And hope another tide will be 

More pitying than this : 
The wind turns, the tide turns, — 

They take what hope there is. 

My life goes on as life must go. 

With all its sweetness spilled : 
My God, why should one heart of two 

Beat on, when one is stilled ? 
Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck, 

Thy happy sparrows build. 

Though boats go down, men build again 

Whatever wind may blow ; 
If blight be in the wheat one year, 

They trust again and sow : 



462 GOLDEN POEMS 

The grief comes, the change comes, 
The tides run high and low. 

Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm, 
The summers bloom and go ; — 

The sea withholds my dead ; I walk 
The bar when tides are low, 

And wonder how the grave-grass 
Can have the heart to grow. 

Flow on, O unconsenting sea, 

And keep my dead below ; 
The night-watch set for me is long, 

But, through it all, I know, 
Or life comes, or death comes, 

God leads the eternal flow. 



Hiram Rich. 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE 

Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough I 
In youth it sheltered me, 

And I '11 protect it now. 
'T was my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot ; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not ! 

That old familiar tree. 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea : 

And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak. 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 
Close as thy bark, old friend ! 

Here shall the wild-bird sing. 
And still thy branches bend. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 463 

Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot ; 
While I 've a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 

George P. Morris. 



ALBUM VERSES 

Thou record of the votive throng 

That fondly seeks this fairy shrine, 
And pays the tribute of a song 

Where worth and loveliness combine, — 

What boots that I, a vagrant wight 

From chme to clime still wandering on, 

Upon thy friendly page should write ? 
Who '11 think of me when I am gone ? 

,Go plough the wave, and sow the sand ; 

Throw seed to every wind that blows • 
Along the highway strew thy hand, 

And fatten on the crop that grows. 

For even thus the man that roams 
On heedless hearts his feeling spends ; 

Strange tenant of a thousand homes. 
And friendless, with ten thousand friends. 

Yet here, for once, I '11 leave a trace, 

To ask in after times a thought ; 
To say that here a resting-place 

INIy way-worn heart has fondly sought. 

So the poor pilgrim heedless strays. 
Unmoved, through many a region fair ; 

But at some shrine his tribute pays. 
To tell that he has worshipped there. 

Washington Irving. 



WAITING 

Serene I fold my arms and wait. 
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea : 

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate. 
For lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays. 
For what avails this eager pace ? 

I stand amid the eternal ways. 

And what is mine shall know my face. 



464 GOLDEN POEMS 

Asleep, awake, by night or day, 

The friends I seek are seeking me ; 
No wind can drive my bark astray, 

Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years ; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown, 

And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height ; 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The floweret nodding in the wind 

Is ready plighted to the bee ; 
And, maiden, why that look unkind ? 

For lo ! thy lover seeketh thee. 

The stars come nightly to the sky ; 

The tidal wave unto the sea ; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high 

Can keep my own away from me. 

John Burroughs. 



LIFE'S INCONGRUITIES 

Green grows the laurel on the bank, 

Dark waves the pine upon the hill. 
Green hangs the lichen, cold and dank, 

Dark springs the hearts-ease by the rill, 
Age-mosses clamber ever bright. 

Pale is the water-lily's bloom : 
Thus Life still courts the shades of night, 

And beauty hovers o'er the tomb. 

So, all through life, incongruous hue 

Each object wears from childhood down ; 
The evanescent — heaven's blue. 

The all-enduring — sober brown ; 
Our brightest dreams too quickly die. 

And griefs are green that should be old, 
And joys that sparkle to the eye 

Are like a tale that 's quickly told. 

And yet 't is but the golden mean 
That checks our lives' unsteady flow ; 

God's counterbalance thrown between. 
To poise the scale 'twixt joy and woe : 



SCATTERED LEAVES 465 

And better so ; for were the bowl 

Too freely to the parched lip given, 
Too much of grief would crush the soul, 

Too much of joy would wean from heaven. 

Egbert Phelps. 

EQUINOCTIAL 

The sun of life has crossed the line ;^ 
The summer-shine of lengthened light 

Faded and failed — till, where I stand, 
'T is equal day and equal night. 

One after one, as dwindling hours, 
Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, 

And soon may barely leave the gleam 
That coldly scores a winter's day. 

I am not young — I am not old ; 

The flush of morn, the sunset calm, 
Paling and deepening, each to each. 

Meet midway with a solemn charm. 

One side I see the summer fields. 

Not yet disrobed of all their green ; 
While westerly, along the hills. 

Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm 

Make battle-ground of this my life ! 
Where, even-matched, the night and day 

Wage roimd me their September strife. 

I bow me to the threatening gale : 

I know when that is overpast. 
Among the peaceful harvest days 

An Indian Summer comes at last. 

Mrs, a. D. T. Whitney. 

THE MYSTERIES 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, 

Holding my breath ; 
There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 

At the dark mystery of Death. 

Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, 

Spent with the strife,— 
O mother, let me weep upon thy breast 

At the sad mystery of Life ! 

William Dean Howells. 



466 GOLDEN POEMS 

RUTH 

She stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, — 
Which were blackest none could tell : 
But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim. 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks. 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 



Thomas Hood. 



THE LATE SPRING 

She stood alone amidst the April fields — 
Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. 

''The Spring is late," she said, ''the faithless Spring, 
That should have come to make the meadows fair. 

*' Their sweet South left too soon ; among the trees, 

The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; 
For them no green boughs wait, — their memories 

Of last year's April had deceived them so." 

She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad Spring, 
The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees, 

"Thus God has dealt with me, his child," she said ; 
'*I wait my Spring-time, and am cold like these. 

"To them will come the fullness of their time ; 

Their Spring, though late, will make the meadows fair ; 
Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? 

I am his own, — doth not my Father care?" 

Louise Chandler Moulton. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 467 

THOUGHT 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 

Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils ; 

Man by man was never seen ; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart was never known ; 

Mind with mind did never meet ; 
We are columns left alone 

Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 

Far apart, though seeming near, 
In our light we scattered lie ; 

All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 

But a babbling summer stream ? 
What our wise philosophy 

But the glancing of a dream ? 

Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought. 

Only when we live above 
What the dim-eyed world hath taught. 

Only when our souls are fed 
By the fount which gave them birth, 

And by inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth, 

We, like parted drops of rain. 

Swelling till they meet and run, 
Shall be all absorbed again. 

Melting, flowing into one. 

Christopher Pearse Cranch. 

BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 

Lodged with me -useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He returning chide ; 

''Doth God exact day labor, light denied? " 



468 GOLDEN POEMS 

I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, ** God doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

John Milton. 



NIGHT AND DEATH 

Mysterious night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came. 
And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun ! or who could find. 
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us bhnd ? 
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife ? 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 

Joseph Blanco White. 



THE CLOSING SCENE 

Within the sober realm of leafless trees. 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 

Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills. 
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales. 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued ; 

The hills seemed farther and the stream sang low. 
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 

His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue. 

Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old. 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 469 

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight ; 

The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint ; 
And, like a star slow drowning in the Hght, 

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, — 
Crew thrice, — and all was stiller than before ; 

Silent, till some replying warden blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, 

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young ; 

Andd where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
By every hght wind like a censer swung ; — 

Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves, 

The busy swallows circling ever near, — 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 

An early harvest and a plenteous year ; — 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 

To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail. 

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 

The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by night, 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air, 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch, — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron with monotonous tread 

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She had known Sorrow, — he had walked with her, 
Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust ; 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom. 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all ; 

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall : 



470 GOLDEN POEMS 

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew 
And struck for Liberty the dying blow ; 

Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped ; her head was bowed ; 

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene ; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, 

While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



ENDURANCE 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break ! 

How much the flesh may suffer, and not die ! 
I question much if any pain or ache 

Of soul or body brings our end more nigh : 
Death chooses his own time ; till that is sworn, 
All evils may be borne. 

We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife, 
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel 

Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life ; 
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal. 

That still, although the trembling flesh be torn, 
This also can be borne. 

We see a sorrow rising in our way, 

And try to flee from the approaching ill ; 

We seek some small escape : we weep and pray ; 
But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still ; 

Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn 
But that it can be borne. 

We wind our life about another life ; 

We hold it closer, dearer than our own : 
Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife. 

Leaving us stunned and stricken and alone ; 
But ah ! we do not die with those we mourn, — 
This also can be borne. 

Behold, we live through all things, — famine, thirst. 
Bereavement, pain ; all grief and misery, 



SCATTERED LEAVES 471 

All woe and sorrow ; life inflicts its worst 
On soul and body, — but we cannot die. 
Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn, — 
Lo, all things can be borne ! 
Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Percy). 

OUTGROWN 

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she 's not fickle ; her love she 

has simply outgrown : 
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the 

light of one's own. 

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly ? There is much 

that my heart would say ; 
And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and 

" made up " in play. 

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the 

truth, — . 
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier 

youth. 

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self- 
same plane. 

Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls should 
be parted again. 

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's 

early May ; 
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you 

to-day. 

Nature never stands still, nor souls either : they ever go up or 

go down ; 
And hers has been steadily soaring — but how has it been with 

your own ? 

She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and 
wiser each year : 

The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmo- 
sphere ! 

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five 

summers ago, 
Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves 

is to grow. 

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer : but their vision is clearer 

as well ; 
Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell. 



472 GOLDEN POEMS 

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his 

angels have talked : 
The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with 

whom she has walked. 

And you ? Have you aimed at the highest ? Have you, too, 

aspired and prayed ? 
Have you looked upon evil unsullied ? Have you conquered 

it undismayed ? 

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the 
years have rolled on ? 

Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of vic- 
tory won ? 

Nay, hear me ! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in 

her presence you stood 
Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of 

her womanhood ? 

Go measure yourself by her standard ; look back on the years 

that have fled : 
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her 

girlhood is dead. 

She cannot look down to her lover : her love, like her soul, 

aspires ; 
He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its 

holy fires. 

Now farewell ! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured 

to tell you the truth, 
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly as I might in our earlier 

youth. 

Julia C. R. Dorr. 

THE PENITENT 

St. Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold ; 
Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old. 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees; 



SCATTERED LEAVES 473 

The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze, 
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no, — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung : 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 

John Keats {Eve of St. Agnes). 



THE AIM OF LIFE 

We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. 
And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest : 
Lives in one hour more than in years do some 
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. 
Life is but a means unto an end ; that end, 
Beginning, mean, and end to all things — God. 
The dead have all the glory of the world. 

Philip James Bailey {Festus). 



FAME 

What shall I do lest life in silence pass? 

And if it do, 
And never prompt the bray of noisy brass, 

What need' St thou rue ? 
Remember aye the ocean deeps are mute ; 

The shallows roar ; 
Worth is the ocean, fame is but the bruit 

Along the shore. 

What shall I do to be forever known ? — 

Thy duty ever. 
This did full many who yet slept unknown. 

Oh ! never, never ! 



474 - GOLDEN POEMS 

Think'st thou, perchance, that they remain unknown 

Whom thou know'st not ? 
By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown, — 

Divine their lot ! 

What shall I do to gain eternal life ? 

Discharge aright 
The simple dues with which each day is rife ! 

Yea, with thy might ! 

{From the German of Schiller.) 



MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN 

Three words fall sweetly on my soul 

As music from an angel lyre. 
That bid my spirit spurn control 

And upward to its source aspire ; 
The sweetest sounds to mortals given 
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven. 

Dear Mother I ne'er shall I forget 

Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile ! 

Though in the sea of death hath set 
Thy star of life, my guide awhile. 

Oh, never shall thy form depart 

From the bright pictures in my heart. 

And like a bird that from the flowers, 

Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest. 
My spirit, e'en in manhood's hours. 

Turns back in childhood's Home to rest ; 
The cottage, garden, hill, and stream, 
Still linger like a pleasant dre^im. 

And while to one engulfing grave. 

By time's swift tide we 're driven, 
How sweet the thought that every wave 

But bears us nearer Heaven ! 
There we shall meet when Hfe is o'er, 
In that blest Home, to part no more. 

William Goldsmith Brown. 



THE END OF THE PLAY 

The play is done, — the curtain drops. 
Slow faUing to the prompter's bell ; 

A moment yet the actor stops, 
And looks around, to say farewell. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 475 

It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he 's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that 's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends, 

Let 's close it with a parting rhyme ; 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas time ; 
On life's wide scene you too have parts 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good night ! with honest, gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good-night! I'd say the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age ; 
I 'd say your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men, 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys. 
With grizzled beards at forty -five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys ; 
And if, in time of sacred youth. 

We learned at home to love and pray. 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the schoc^ 

I 'd say how fate may change *d shift, 
The prize be sometimes with the fool. 

The race not always to the swift : 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown. 
The knave be lifted over all. 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows^ the inscrutable design ? 

Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. 

Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 
We bowed to Heaven that willed it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all, 
That sends the respite or the blow. 

That 's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit, — 
Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 



476 GOLDEN POEMS 

His betters, see, below him sit. 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 
Come, brother, in that dust we 'U kneel 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 
Amen ! — whatever fate be sent. 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part, 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize ? 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days ; 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men ! 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside. 
And wish you health and love and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide ; 
As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still : 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 

To men of gentle will. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 477 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 

The year is going, let him go ; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 

For those that here we see no more ; 

Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 

Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

The faithless coldness of the times ; 

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 

Ring out the darkness of the land, 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson {In Memoriam). 

THE LAST WORD 

Creep into 'thy narrow bed ; 
Creep, and let no more be said ! 
Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; 
Thou thyself must break at last. 

Let the long contention cease ! 
Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will ! 
Thou art tired ; best be still. 

They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee ? 
Better men fared thus before thee ; 
Fired their ringing shot and pass'd. 
Hotly charged — and sank at last. 



GOLDEN POEMS 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
Let the victors, when they come, 
When the forts of folly fall. 
Find thy body by the wall 1 

Matthew Arnold. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-brow' d Homer ruled as his demesne : 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
— Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

John Keats. 

THANATOPSIS 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — ' 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice. — 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 



SCATTERED LEAVES 479 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns .with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there : 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men. 
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes 



480 GOLDEN POEMS 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
The speechless babe, and the gray-haired man — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through. 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee. 

Child of the wandering sea. 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings : — 



SCATTERED LEAVES 481 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 

What I am, and what I ought to be, 
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 

Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 
**Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! 

"Ah, once more," I cried, ''ye stars, ye waters. 
On my heart your mighty charm renew ; 

Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! " 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven. 

Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 
In the rustling night-air came the answer : 

"Wouldst thou he as these are? Live as they. 

" Unaff righted by the silence round them, 

Undistracted by the sights they see, 
These demand not that the things without them 

Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 

''And with joy the stars perform their shining. 
And the sea its long moon-silver' d roll ;' 

For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God's other works may be, 

In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

O air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : 
" Resolve to be thyself ; and know that he 
Who finds himself, loses his misery ! " 

Matthew Arnold. 



482 GOLDEN POEMS 

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock -beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on liis mail. 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 



THE BRIDGE 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour. 

And the moon rose o'er the city. 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 483 

Among the long, black rafters, 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them. 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The sea- weed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came over me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh, how often. 

In the days that had gone by, 
I stood on the bridge at midnight 

And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, oh, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O 'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care. 
And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 

On its bridge with wooden piers. 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 

Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men. 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow. 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro. 
The young heart hot and restless. 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, * 

As long as the heart has passions. 

As long as life has woes ; 



484 GOLDEN POEMS 

The moon and its broken reflection 

And its shadows shall appear, 
As the symbol of love in heaven, 

And its wavering image here. 

Henry Wads worth Longfellow. 



SONG IN IMITATION OF THE ELIZABETHANS 

Sweetest sweets that time hath rifled 

Live anew on lyric tongue, — 
Tresses with which Paris trifled. 

Lips to Antony's that clung. 
These surrender not their rose. 
Nor their .golden puissance those. 

Vain the envious loam that covers 

Her of Egypt, her of Troy : 
Helen's, Cleopatra's lovers 

Still desire them, still enjoy. 
Fate but stole what Song restored : 
Vain the aspic, vain the cord. 

Idly clanged the sullen portal. 

Idly the sepulchral door : 
Fame the mighty, Love the immortal, 

These than foolish dust are more : 
Nor may captive Death refuse 
Homage to the conquering Muse. 

William Watson. 



SOVEREIGN POETS 

They who create rob death of half its stings ; 

They, from the dim inane and vague opaque 

Of nothingness, build with their thought, and make 

Enduring entities and beauteous things ; 

They are the Poets — they give airy wings 

To shapes marmorean ; or they overtake 

The Ideal with the brush, or, soaring, wake 

Far in the rolling clouds their glorious strings. 

The Poet is the only potentate ; 

His sceptre reaches o'er remotest zones ; 

His thought remembered and his golden tones 

Shall, in the ears of nations uncreate. 

Roll on for ages and reverberate 

When Kings are dust beside forgotten thrones. 

Lloyd Mifflin. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 485 

PLANTING THE TREE 

What do we plant when we plant the tree ? 
We plant the ship which will cross the sea ; 
We plant the mast to carry the sails ; 
We plant the plank to withstand the gales ; 
The keel, the keelson, the beam, the knee ; 
We plant the ship when we plant the tree. 

What do we plant when we plant the tree ? 
We plant the houses for you and me ; 
We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors ; 
We plant the studding, lath, the doors. 
The beams, the siding, all parts that be ; 
We plant the house when we plant the tree. 

What do we plant when we plant the tree ? 
A thousand things that we daily see ; 
We plant the spire that out -towers the crag ; 
We plant the staff for our country's flag ; 
We plant the shade from the hot sun free — 
We plant all these when we plant the tree. 

Henry Abbey. 



THE HAPPIEST HEART 

Who drives the horses of the sun 

Shall lord it but a day ; 
Better the lowly deed were done, 

And kept the humble way. 

The rust will find the sword of fame, 

The dust will hide the crown ; 
Ay, none shall hang so high his name 

Time will not tear it down. 

The happiest heart that ever beat 

Was in some quiet breast 
That found the common daylight sweet, 

And left to heaven the rest. 

John Vance Cheney. 



THE FOODS PRAYER 

The royal feast was done ; the king 
Sought some new sport to banish care, 

And to his jester cried, "Sir Fool, 

Kneel now and make for us a prayer ! ' ' 



486 GOLDENPOEMS 

The jester doffed his cap and bells, 
And stood the mocking court before ; 

They could not see the bitter smile 
Behind the painted grin he wore. 

, He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
Upon the monarch's silken stool ; 
His pleading voice arose : "O Lord, , 
Be merciful to me, a fool 1 

"No pity. Lord, could change the heart 
From red with wrong to white as wool ; 

The rod must heal the sin ; but, Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" 'T is not by guilt the onward sweep 
Of truth and light, O Lord, we stay ; 

'T is by our follies that so long 
We hold the earth from heaven away. 

"These clumsy feet, still in the mire. 
Go crushing blossoms without end ; 

These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
Among the heart-strings of a friend. 

"The ill-time truth we might have kept — 
We know how sharp it pierced and stung ! 

The word we had not sense to say — 
Who knows how grandly it had rung ? 

"Our faults no tenderness should ask. 
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; 

But for our blunders — oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of Heaven we fall. 

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes ; 

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
That did his will ; but thou, O Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
The king, and sought his garden cool. 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 
"Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

Edward Rowland Sill. 

HEARTS CONTENT 

"A SAIL 1 a sail ! tDh, whence away, 

And whither, o'er the foam ? 
Good brother mariners, we pray, 

God speed you safely home ! ' ' 



SCATTERED LEAVES 487 

"Now wish us not so foul a wind, 

Until the fair be spent ; 
For hearth and home we leave behind : 

We sail for Heart's Content." 

"For Heart's Content ! And sail ye so, 

With canvas flowing free ? 
But, pray you, tell us, if ye know. 

Where may that harbor be ? 
For we that greet you, worn of time, 

Wave -racked, and tempest -rent. 
By sun and star, in every clime. 

Have searched for Heart's Content 

"In every clime the world around. 

The waste of waters o'er ; 
And El Dorado have we found. 

That ne'er was found before. 
The isles of spice, the lands of dawn, 

Where East and West are blent — 
All these our eyes have looked upon, 

But where is Heart's Content? 

"Oh, turn again, while yet ye may. 

And ere the hearths are cold. 
And all the embers ashen-gray. 

By which ye sat of old. 
And dumb in death the loving lips 

That mourned as forth ye went 
To join the fleet of missing ships. 

In quest of Heart's Content ; 

"And seek again the harbor-lights. 

Which faithful fingers trim. 
Ere yet alike the days and nights 

Unto your eyes are dim ! 
For woe, alas ! to those that roam 

Till time and tide are spent. 
And win no more the port of home — 

The only Heart's Content !" 



Anonymous. 



REVELRY IN INDIA 

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 
And the walls around are bare ; 

As they shout back our peals of laughter. 
It seems that the dead are there. 



488 GOLDEN POEMS 

Then stand to your glasses, steady ! 

We drink to our comrades' eyes : 
One cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not here are the goblets glowing — 

Not here is the vintage sweet ; 
'T is cold as our hearts are growing, 

And dark as the doom we meet. 
But stand to your glasses, steady ! 

And soon shall our pulses rise : 
A cup to the dead already, — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles. 

Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 
We '11 fall midst the wine-cup's sparkles 

As mute as the wine we drink. 
So, stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'T is this that the respite buys : 
One cup to the dead already, — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Time was when we laughed at others — 

We thought we were wiser then ; 
Ha, ha ! let them think of their mothers, 

Who hope to see them again. 
No, stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The thoughtless is here the wise ; 
One cup to the dead already, — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

There 's many a hand that 's shaking. 

And many a cheek that 's sunk ; 
But soon, though our hearts are breaking. 

They '11 burn with the wine we 've drunk. 
Then, stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'T is here the revival lies : 
Quaff a cup to the dead already, — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

There 's a mist on the glass congealing — 

'T is the hurricane's sultry breath ; 
And thus doth the warmth of feeling 

Turn ice in the grasp of death. 
But stand to your glasses, steady ! 

For a moment the vapor flies ; 
A cup to the dead already, — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 



SCATTERED LEAVES 489 

Who dreads to the dust returning, 

Who shrinks from the sable shore 
Where the high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul shall sing no more ? 
No, stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The world is a world of lies : 
A cup to the dead already, — 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Cut off from the land that bore us, 

Betrayed by the land we find. 
When the brightest have gone before us, 

And the dullest remain behind, — 
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady 1 

'T is all we have left to prize ; 
One cup to the dead already, — 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Bartholomew Dowling. 



THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 

Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 

The emptiness of ages in his face. 

And on his back the burden of the world. 

Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 

A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, 

Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox ? 

Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw ? 

Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow ? 

Whose breath blew out the light within this brain ? 

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over sea and land ; 

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power ; 

To feel the passion of Eternity ? 

Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 

And pillared the blue firmament with light ? 

Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 

There is no shape more terrible than this — 

More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed 

More filled with signs and portents for the soul — 

More fraught with menace to the universe 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim ! 
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades ? 



490 GOLDEN POEMS 

What the long reaches of the peaks of song, 
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose ? 
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look ; 
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop ; 
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, 
Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 
A protest that is also prophecy. 

O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, 

Is this the handiwork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched ? 

How will you ever straighten up this shape ; 

Touch it again with immortality ; 

Give back the upward looking and the light ; 

Rebuild in it the music and the dream ; 

Make right the immemorial infamies. 

Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes ? 

O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands. 
How will the Future reckon with this Man ? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world ? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is — 
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, 
After the silence of the centuries ? 

Edwin Markham. 



THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Blessings on thee, httle man. 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons. 
And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
With the sunshine on thy face. 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 
I was once a barefoot boy ! 
Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the milHon-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy : 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 



SCATTERED LEAVES 

O for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools. 
Of the wiFd bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell. 
How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine. 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For, eschewing books and tasks. 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks. 
Face to face with her he talks. 
Part and parcel of her joy, — 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

O for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon. 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night,— 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still as my horizon grew. 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 



491 



492 GOLDENPOEMS 

Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

O for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frog's orchestra ; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch : pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-spread the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod. 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil. 
Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah, that thou couldst know thy joy. 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

THE SONNET 

What is a sonnet ? 'T is the pearly shell 

That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea ; 

A precious jewel carved most curiously ; 

It is a little picture painted well. 

What is a sonnet ? 'T is the tear that fell 

From a great poet's hidden ecstasy ; 

A two-edged sword, a star, a song, — ah me ! 

Sometimes a heavy -tolHng funeral bell. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 493 

This was the flame that shook with Dante's breath, 

The solemn organ whereon Milton played, 

And the clear, glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls : 

A sea this is, — beware who ventureth ! 

For like a fiord the narrow floor is laid 

Mid-ocean deep to the sheer mountain walls. 

Richard Watson Gilder. 



THE SONNET 

The Sonnet is a fruit which long hath slept 

And ripen'd on Hfe's sun-warm'd orchard-wall ; 

A gem which, hardening in the mystical 

Mine of man's heart, to quenchless flame hath leapt ; 

A medal of pure gold art's nympholept 

Stamps with love's lips and brows imperial ; 

A branch from memory's briar, whereon the fall 

Of thought-eternalizing tears hath wept : 

A star that shoots athwart star-steadfast heaven ; 

A fluttering aigrette of toss'd passion's brine ; 

A leaf from youth's immortal missal torn ; 

A bark across dark seas of anguish driven ; 

A feather dropp'd from breast-wings aquiline ; 

A silvery dream shunning red lips of morn. 

John Addington Symonds. 



THE SONNETS VOICE 

[A Metrical Lesson by the Seashore] 

Yon silvery billows breaking on the beach 
Fall back in foam beneath the star-shine clear, 
The while my rhymes are murmuring in my ear 
A restless lore like that the billows teach ; 
For on these sonnet-waves my soul would reach 
From its own depths, and rest within you, dear, 
As, through the billowy voices yearning here. 
Great nature strives to find a human speech. 
A sonnet is a wave of melody : 
From heaving waters of the impassion'd soul 
A billow of tidal music one and whole 
Flows in the "octave"; then returning free, 
Its ebbing surges in the "sestet" roll 
Back to the deeps of Life's tumultuous sea. 

Theodore Watts-Dunton. 



494 GOLDEN POEMS 

A SONNET 

A Sonnet is. a moment's monument,— 

Memorial from the Soul's eternity 

To one dead, deathless hour. Look that it be, 

Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, 

Of its own arduous fulness reverent : 

Carve it in ivory or in ebony, • 

As Day or Night may rule ; and let Time see 

Its flowering crest impearl'd and orient. 

A Sonnet is a coin : its face reveals 

The soul, — its converse, to what Power 't is due : — 

Whether for tribute to the august appeals 

Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue. 

It serve ; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath, 

In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 
(The House of Life). 



A WISH 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 

Oft shall the pilgrim Hft the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet-gown and apron blu^. 

The village-church among the trees. 

Where first our marriage-vows were given. 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
And point with taper spire to Heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 



THE TIGER 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 



SCATTERED LEAVES 495 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
And, when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand and what dread feet ? 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did he smile his work to see? 
Did he who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

William Blake. 

THE QUIET LIFE 

Happy the man whose wish and care 

A few paternal acres bound. 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 

Together mix'd ; sweet recreation. 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 



496 GOLDEN POEMS 

THE BALLOT 

A WEAPON that comes down as still 
As snowflakes fall upon the sod ; 

But executes a freeman's will, 
As lightning does the will of God. 

John Pierpont. 



INVICTUS 

Out of the night that covers me, 
Black as the pit from Pole to Pole, 

I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud. 

Under the bludgeonings of chance 
My head is bloody, but unbow'd. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 

And yet the menace of the years 
Finds and shall find me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

How charged with punishments the scroll, 

I am the master of my fate : 
I am the captain of my soul. 

William Ernest Henley. 



REQUIEM 

Under the wide and starry sky 
Dig the grave and let me lie ; 
Glad did I live and gladly die. 
And I laid me down with a will. 

This.be the verse you grave for me : 
Here he lies where he longed to he ; 
Home is the sailor, home from sea, 
And the hunter home from the hill. 

Robert Loms Stevenson. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 497 

RECESSIONAL 

God of our fathers, known of old — 

Lord of our far-flung battle line — 
Beneath Whose awful hand we hold 

Dominion over palm and pine — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

The tumult and the shouting dies ; 

The captains and the kings depart : 
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, 

An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget 1 

Far-called, our navies melt away ; 

On dune and headland sinks the fire : 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! 
Judge of the Nations spare us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — 

Such boasting as the Gentiles use 
Or lesser breeds without the Law — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard — 
All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding, calls not Thee to guard- 
For frantic boast and foolish word, 
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord ! 
Amen. 

RuDYARD Kipling. 

THE LAST CAMP-FIRE 

Scar not earth's breast that I may have 
Somewhere above her heart a grave ; 
Mine was a life whose swift desire 
Bent ever less to dust than fire ; 
Then through the swift white path of flame 
Send back my soul to whence it came ; 
From some great peak, storm challenging, 
My death-fire to the heavens fling ; 
The rocks my altar, and above 
The still eyes of the stars I love ; 



498 GOLDEN POEMS 

No hymn, save as the midnight wind 
Comes whispering to seek his kind. 

Heap high the logs of spruce and pine, 
Balsam for spices and for wine ; 
Brown cones, and knots a golden blur 
Of hoarded pitch, more sweet than myrrh ; 
Cedar, to stream across the dark 
Its scented embers spark on spark ; 
Long, shaggy boughs of juniper, 
And silvery, odorous sheaves of fir ; 
Spice-wood, to die in incense smoke 
Against the stubborn roots of oak. 
Red to the last for hate or love 
As that red stubborn heart above. 

Watch till the last pale ember dies. 

Till wan and low the dead pyre lies. 

Then let the thin white ashes blow 

To all earth's winds a finer snow ; 

There is no wind of hers but I 

Have loved it as it whistled by ; 

No leaf whose life I would not share, 

No weed that is not some way fair ; 

Hedge not my dust in one close urn, 

It is to these I would return, — 

The wild, free winds, the things that know 

No master's rule, no ordered row. 

To be, if Nature will, at length 

Part of some great tree's noble strength ; 

Growth of the grass ; to live anew 

In many a wild-flower's richer hue ; 

Find immortality indeed. 

In ripened heart of fruit and seed. 

Time grants not any man redress 

Of his broad law, forgetfulness ; 

I parley not with shaft and stone. 

Content that in the perfume blown 

From next year's hillsides something sweet 

And mine, shall make earth more complete. 

Sharlot M. Hall. 



TO-DAY ^ 

Why fear to-morrow, timid heart ? 

Why tread the future's way ? 
We only need to do our part 

To-day, dear child, to-day. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 

The past is written ! Close the book 

On pages sad and gay ; 
Within the future do not look, 

But live to-day — to-day. 

'T is this one hour that God has given ; 

His Now we must obey ; 
And it will make our earth his heaven 

To live to-day — to-day. 

Lydia Avery Coonley Ward. 

EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE 

A FIRE-MIST and a planet, 

A crystal and a cell, 
A jelly-fish and a saurian, 

And a cave where the cave-men dwell; 
Then a sense of law and beauty, 

A face turned from the clod, — 
Some call it Evolution, 

And others call it God. 

A haze on the far horizon, 

The infinite tender sky. 
The ripe rich tint of the corn-fields, 

And the wild geese sailing high. 
And all over upland and lowland 

The charm of the golden-rod, — 
Some of us call it Autumn, 

And others call it God. 

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, 

When the moon is new and thin, 
Into our hearts high yearnings 

Come welling and surging in — 
Come from the mystic ocean, 

Whose rim no foot has trod, — 
Some of us call it Longing, 

And others call it God. 

A picket frozen on duty, 

A mother starved for her brood, 
Socrates drinking the hemlock, 

And Jesus on the road: 
And millions who, humble and nameless. 

The straight, hard pathway plod, — 
Some call it Consecration, 

And others call it God. 

William Herbert Carruth. 



499 



500 GOLDEN POEMS 

CHRISTMAS HYMN 

It was the calm and silent night ! — 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 

And now was Queen of land and sea ! 
No sound was heard of clashing wars ; 

Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain ; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, 

Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, 
In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago ! 

'T was in the calm and silent night ! 

The senator of haughty Rome 
Impatient urged his chariot's flight. 

From lordly revel rolling home ! 
Triumphal arches gleaming swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What reck'd the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away, 
In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago ! 

Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor : 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fall'n through a half -shut stable door 
Across his path. He pass'd — for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars ! his only thought ; 

The air how calm and cold and thin, 
In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago ! 

O strange indifference ! — low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares : 
The earth was still — but knew not why ; 

The world was listening — unawares ; 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 
To that still moment none would heed, 

Man's doom was link'd no more to sever 
In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness, charm' d and holy now t 



SCATTERED LEAVES 501 

The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay new-born 
The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, 
In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago. 

Alfred Domett. 



^ ARISTOCRACY 

The pedigree of honey 

Does not concern the bee ; 
A clover any time to him 

Is aristocracy. 

Emily Dickinson. 



ISOLATION 

Yes ! in the sea of life enisled, 

With echoing straits between us thrown, 

Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
We mortal millions live alone. 

The islands feel the enclasping flow, 

And then their endless bounds they know. 

But when the moon their hollows lights, 
And they are swept by balms of spring. 

And in their glens, on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing ; 

And lovely notes, from shore to shore. 

Across the sounds and channels pour — 

Oh ! then a longing like despair 

Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 
For surely once, they feel, we were 

Parts of a single continent ! 
Now round us spreads the watery plain — 
Oh might our marges meet again ! 

Who order' d, that their longing's fire 
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? 

Who renders vain their deep desire ? — 
A God, a God their severance ruled ! 

And bade betwixt their shores to be 

The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 

Matthew Arnold. 



502 GOLDEN POEMS 

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long. 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the viflage choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin. 
Each evening sees its close ; 

Something attempted, something done. 
Has earned a night's repose. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 503 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of Hfe 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



MORALITY 

We cannot kindle when we will 

The fire which in the heart resides ; 
The spirit bloweth and is still, 

In mystery our soul abides. 
But tasks in hours of insight will'd 
Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd. 

With aching hands and bleeding feet 
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 

We bear the burden and the heat 

Of the long day, and wish 't were done. 

Not till the hours of light return. 

Ail we have built do we discern. 

Matthew Arnold. 



BRAHMA 

If the red slayer think he slays. 

Or if the slain think he is slain, 
They know not well the subtle ways 

I keep, and pass, and turn again. 

Far or forgot to me is near ; 

Shadow and sunlight are the same ; 
The vanished gods to me appear ; 

And one to me are shame and fame. 

They reckon ill who leave me out ; 

When me they fly, I am the wings ; 
I am the doubter and the doubt, 

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. 

The strong gods pine for my abode, 

And pine in vain the sacred Seven ; 
But thou, meek lover of the good ! 

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



504 GOLDEN POEMS 

HEREDITY 

Why bowest thou, O soul of mine, 

Crushed by ancestral sin ? 
Thou hast a noble heritage, 

That bids thee victory win. 

The tainted past may bring forth flowers, 

As blossomed Aaron's rod ; 
No legacy of sin annuls 

Heredity from God. 

Lydia Avery Coonley Ward. 



THE CELESTIAL SURGEON 

If I have faltered more or less 
In my great task of happiness ; 
If I have moved among my race 
And shown no glorious morning face ; 
If beams from happy human eyes 
Have moved me not ; if morning skies, 
Books, and my food, and summer rain 
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain, — 
Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take. 
And stab my spirit broad awake. 

Robert Louis Stevenson 



THE STARRY HOST 

The countless stars, which to our human eye 
Are fixed and steadfast, each in proper place, 
Forever bound in changeless points in space, 
Rush with our sun and planets through the sky. 
And like a flock of birds still onward fly ; 
Returning never whence began their race, 
They speed their ceaseless way with gleaming face 
As though God bade them win Infinity. 
Ah whither, whither in their forward flight 
Through endless time and limitless expanse ? 
What power with unimaginable might 
First hurled them forth to spin in tireless dance ? 
What beauty lures them on through primal night, 
So that for them to be is to advance. 

John Lancaster Spalding. 



SCATTERED LEAVES 505 

DANNY DEEVER 

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. 
"To turn you out, to turn you out," the Colour-Sergeant said. 
" What makes you look so white, so white ? " said Files-on-Parade. 
" I 'm dreadin' what I Ve got to watch," the Colour-Sergeant said. 
For they 're hangin' Danny Deever, you can 'ear the 

Dead March play. 
The regiment 's in 'ollow square — they 're hangin' him 

to-day ; 
They 've taken of his buttons off an ' cut his stripes away, 
An' they 're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. 

"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on- 
Parade. 
" It 's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Colour-Sergeant said. 
"What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files-on- 
Parade. 
"A touch of sun, a touch of sun," the Colour-Sergeant said. 

They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' 

of 'im round. 
They'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the 

ground ; 
An' 'e '11 swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' 
hound — 
O, they 're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'! 

" 'Is cot was right- 'and 'cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade. 
" 'E 's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Colour-Sergeant said. 
" I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. 
" 'E 'sdrinkin' bitter beer alone," the Colour-Sergeant said. 

They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im 

to 'is place, 
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' — you must look 'im in 

the face ; 
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, 
While they 're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. 

" What 's that so black agin the sun ? " said Files-on-Parade. 
"It 's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Colour-Sergeant said. 
"What 's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. 
" It 's Danny's soul that 's passin' now," the Colour-Sergeant said. 
For they 've done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the 

quickstep play. 
The regiment 's in column, an' they 're marchin' us away; 
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they '11 want 
their beer to-day. 
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. 

RuDYARD Kipling. 



5o6 GOLDEN POEMS 

SONG 

O HAPPY lark, that warblest high 

Above thy lowly nest, 
O brook, that brawlest merrily by 

Thro' fields that once were blest, 
O tower spiring to the sky, ^ 

O graves in daisies drest, 
O Love and Life, how weary am I, 

And how I long for rest! 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

(The Promise of May). 

HESPER— VENUS 

Venus near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours. 
Closer on the sun, perhaps a world of never-fading flowersr. 

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer-home of all good things — • 
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. 

Hesper — Venus — were we native to that splendor, or in Mars, 
We should see the globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars. 

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and 

spite. 
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light ? 

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair, 
Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, ** Would to God that we 
were there " ? 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

{Locksley Hall Sixty Years After). 

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION 

But slow that tide of common thought. 

Which bathed our life, retired ; 
Slow, slow the old world wore to nought, 

And pulse by pulse expired. 

Its frame yet stood without a breach. 
When blood and warmth were fled ; 

And still it spake its wonted speech — 
But every word was dead. 

And oh, we cried, that on this corse 

Might fall a freshening storm ! 
Rive its dry bones, and with new force 

A new-sprung world inform ! 



SCATTERED LEAVES 507 

— Down came the storm ! O'er France it pass'd, 

In sheets of scathing fire ; 
All Europe felt that fiery blast, 

And shook as it rush'd by her. 

Down came the storm ! In ruins fell 

The worn-out world we knew. 
It pass'd, that elemental swell — 

Again appear' d the blue ; 

The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky ; 

And what from heaven saw he ? 
Blocks of the past, like icebergs high, 

Float on a rolling sea ! 

Upon them plies the race of man 

All it before endeavour'd ; 
" Ye live," I cried, " ye work and plan, 

And know not ye are sever' d ! 

" Poor fragments of a broken world 

Whereon men pitch their tent ! 
Why were ye too to death not hurl'd 

When your world's day was spent?" 

jVIatthew Arnold {Ohermann). 

AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON 

As I came down from Lebanon, 

Came winding, wandering slowly down 

Through mountain passes bleak and brown. 

The cloudless day was well-nigh done. 

The city, like an opal set 

In emerald, showed each minaret 

Afire with radiant beams of sun. 

And glistened orange, fig, and lime. 

Where song-birds made melodious chime, 

As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
Like lava in the dying glow. 
Through olive orchards far below 
I saw the murmuring river run ; 
And ^neath the wall upon the sand 
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand, 
With precious spices they had won, 
Lay long and languidly in wait 
Till they might pass the guarded gate, 
As I came down from Lebanon. 



5o8 GOLDEN POEMS 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
I saw strange men from lands afar, 
In mosque and square and gay bazar, 
The Magi that the Moslem shun. 
And Grave Effendi from Stamboul, 
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool ; 
And, from the balconies o'errun 
With roses, gleamed the eyes of those 
Who dwell in still seraglios. 
As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
The flaming flower of daytime died, 
And Night, arrayed as is a bride 
Of some great king, in garments spun 
Of purple and the finest gold, 
Outbloomed in glories manifold, 
Until the moon, above the dun 
And darkening desert, void of shade, 
Shone like a keen Damascus blade, 
As I came down from Lebanon. 

Clinton Scollard. 



WHAT HAVE I DONE? 

I LAY my finger on Time's wrist to score 
The forward-surging moments as they roll ; 

Each pulse seems quicker than the one before ; 
And lo ! my days pile up against my soul 

As clouds pile up against the golden sun ; 

Alas ! What have I done ? What have I done ? 

I never steep the rosy hours in sleep. 
Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt ; 

No idle hands into my bosom creep ; 

And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip. 

So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run ; 

Alas ! What have I done ? What have I done ? 

I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers, 
Or scorned the music of the flowing rills, 

Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours ; 
Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills, 

Unstarred by light of mighty triumphs won ; 

Alas ! What have I done ? What have I done ? 

Be still, my soul ; restrain thy lips from woe ! 
Cease thy lament ! for life is but the flower ; 



SCATTERED LEAVES 509 

The fruit comes after death ; how canst thou know 

The roundness of its form, its depth of power ? 
Death is Hfe's morning. When thy work 's begun, 
Then ask thyself — What yet is to be done ? 

Lillian Blanche Fearing. 



THE DAY IS DONE 



The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeUng of sadness and longing. 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling. 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 
Not from the bards sublime. 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, hke strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 
Whose songs gushed from his heart. 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyehds start ; 

Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease. 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 



5IO GOLDEN POEMS 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come hke the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, Hke the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE END 



^nhtx nf 3Ftr0t Blims 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



PAGE 

Abide with me! fast falls the even-tide 421 

A boding silence reigns . 98 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) 431 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting 353 

A child of Nations, giant-limbed 212 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever , . 168 

A fire-mist and a planet 499 

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain n? 

Ah! not because our Soldier died before his field was won . . 351 

Ah, there be souls none understand 105 

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store 268 

A life on the ocean wave • 458 

A light is out in Italy 214 

A little bird once met another bird 165 

A little elbow leans upon your knee 41 

All day the stormy wind has blown 380 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep ... 93 

All the world over I wonder, in lands that I never have trod 367 

Among the beautiful pictures 454 

And all is well, though faith and form 382 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves .... 243 

And are ye sure the news is true 44 

And didst thou love the race that loved not thee 420 

And is there care in heaven? And is there love 418 

And on her lover's arm she leant 168 

And there they sat, a-popping corn 277 

"And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend" .... 355 

Around this lovely valley rise 67 

"A sail ! a sail ! Oh, whence away 486 

513 



514 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

As aw hurried throo th' toan to mi wark 276 

A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory 456 

As I came down from Lebanon 507 

A simple child 329 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea 167 

A Sonnet is a moment's monument 494 

As the day's last light is dying 190 

As thro' the land at eve we went 320 

At Bannock burn the English lay 218 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay 248 

At last the golden oriental gate 91 

At setting day and rising morn 157 

Avenge, O Lord thy slaughtered saints, whose bones . . . 203 

Away! let naught to love displeasing 42 

A weapon that comes down as still 496 

Back to the flower-town, side by I side 142 

Banner of England! not for a season, O banner of Britain, 

hast thou 252 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead . 296 

Before I trust my fate to thee 194 

Behold her, single in the field 86 

Between the dark and the daylight 38 

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies 396 

Beyond the smiling arid the weeping 395 

Bird of the wilderness 82 

Blessings on thee, little man 490 

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 489 

Break, break, break 333 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead 225 

Bright flag at yonder tapering mast 460 

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride 340 

But heard are the voices 365 

''But see! look up! — on Flodden bent . . 239 

But slow that tide of common thought 506 

Biit where to find that happiest spot below 213 

But who the melodies of morn can tell 66 

By the flow of the inland river 348 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood 227 

By the waters of Life we sat together . 131 

Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring .........*. 451 

Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I 432 

Clime of the unforgotten brave 202 

Close his eyes, his work is done 349 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 515 

PAGE 

Cloudy argosies are drifting down into the purple dark . . 396 

Come, cheerily men, pile on the rails . " 260 

Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring 345 

Come live with me and be my love 162 

Come to me in my dreams, and then 178 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death 217 

Come, when no graver cares employ . ■• 146 

Creep into thy narrow bed 477 

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 159 

Day dawned — within a curtained room 333 

Day is dying! Float, O song 94 

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum." When . , . 352 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way 388 

Doth it not thrill thee. Poet ... . 130 

Down in the wide gray river 457 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 156 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us 65 

Earth, let thy softest mantle rest 356 

Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood 57 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills 397 

Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us 148 

Enough! we 're tired, my heart and I 314 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind 228 

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle sugges- 
tion is fairer no 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth 204 

Fancies are but streams 105 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat 374 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun 295 

First time he kissed me, he but only kiss'd 174 

Flowers that have died upon my Sweet 405 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 165 

Friend after friend departs - 383 

From you have I been absent in the spring 161 

From what strange land beyond our ken 77 

Full fathom five thy father lies ' 30c 

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried 256 

God of our fathers, known of old . . • 497 

God save our gracious king 221 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 173 

Good people all, of every sort 283 

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth . , . 380 

Green be the turf above thee 144 



5i6 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Green fields of England! wheresoe'er 215 

Green grows the laurel on the bank 464 

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born ...... 92 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit 80 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty 274 

Happy the man whose wish and care 495 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 162 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 89 

He ate and drank the precious words 134 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound 366 

Heaven overarches earth and sea 382 

He is gone, O my heart, he is gone 459 

He liveth long who liveth well 365 

Here in my snug little fire-lit chamber 115 

Here in this leafy place 3^8 

Here she was wont to go! and here! and here 157 

Her face was very fair to see 140 

Home they brought her warrior dead 361 

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin 432 

Ho, reaper of life's harvest 381 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood ... 49 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways 167 

How happy is he born and taught 366 

How little recks it where men lie 448 

How long I 've loved thee, and how well ......... 194 

How many times do I love thee, dear 163 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break 470 

How pure at heart and sound in head . . . . ' 412 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps ..... 412 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 236 

How snowdrops cold and blue-eyed harebells blend .... 74 

How steadfastly she 'd worked at it 310 

I am a Prussian! see my colors gleaming 223 

I arise from dreams of thee i74 

I ask not that my bed of death 391 

I canno' eat but little meat 270 

I cannot paint what then I was 59 

I care not. Fortune, what you me deny 58 

I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find 164 

I do not own an inch of land 127 

1 dreamed of Paradise, — and still 192 

If all the world and love were young 162 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 191 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 517 

PAGE 

If I have faltered more or less 5^4 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven 43^ 

If I should fall asleep one day 399 

If I were told that I must die to-morrow 3^9 

If life be as a flame that death doth kill 393 

If love were what the rose is 

If she but knew that I am weeping 3^3 

If stores of dry and learned lore w^e gain I39 

If the red slayer think he slays 5^3 

I gazed upon the glorious sky ^3 

I have a little kinsman 4o6 

I have got a new-born sister 35 

I have had playmates, I have had companions 327 

I have just been learning the lesson of life 327 

I know a place where the sun is like gold 79 

I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder 3° 

I know where Krishna tarries in these early days of spring . 189 

I lately lived in quiet ease 207 

I lay me down to sleep 394 

I lay my finger on Time's wrist to score 5°^ 

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey 203 

I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary 339 

I must not think of thee; and, tired, yet strong 19° 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly no 

In golden youth, when seems the earth 375 

In their ragged regimentals • • • ^57 

In the still air the music lies unheard 373 

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise 31° 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 108 

I remember, I remember 5^ 

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James 286 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden i77 

I saw him once before 433 

I saw two clouds at morning ^93 

I sit beneath the apple-tree 453 

I slept in an old homestead by the sea 118 

Is Nature weak ? Do her enchantments fail 37^ 

I softly sink into the bath of sleep ^34 

I stood on the bridge at midnight 482 

It lies around us Hke a cloud 409 

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be 46 

It 's we two, it 's we two, it 's we two for aye 33 

It was many and many a year ago 455 



5i8 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

It was the calm and silent night 500 

I wander'd by the brookside 183 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 78 

" I was with Grant " — the stranger said 289 

I wonder do you feel to-day ^75 

I would not live alway: 1 ask not to stay 415 

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of 

the sea 187 

Jenny kissed me when we met 171 

John Anderson, my jo, John 44 

John Davidson and Tib his wife 282 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low 182 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 422 

Leaves have their time to fall 335 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 155 

Let 's contend no more, Love iQS 

Let time and chance combine, combine 169 

" Let us spread the sail for purple islands . 386 

Life! I know not what thou art 392 

Like fragments of an uncompleted world 88 

Listen to the water-mill 439 

Look, love, what envious streaks 91 

Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands 187 

Love scorns degrees; the low he lifteth high ....... 189 

Love, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid 

to rest . 398 

Many a long, long year ago 281 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale 248 

Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals ... 271 

Matted with yellow grass the fields lie bare 75 

Maxwelton banks are bonnie 171 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam 46 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour 206 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 494 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord , . 258 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 478 

My boat is on the shore 142 

My days pass pleasantly away 437 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you . 443 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 84 

My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow 185 

My heart leaps up when I behold 102 

My life is like a stroll upon the beach 127 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 5i9 

PAGE 

My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes 3o5 



Mysterious night! when our first parent knew 4 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his 5 

Naked, on parent's knees, a new-born child •;•;••• ^^ 
Nay, you wrong her, my friend ; she 's not fickle ; her love 

she has simply outgrown J 

Nearer, my God, to thee 

Never from lips of cunning fell ^^^ 

Never the time and the place 

Nigh to a grave that was newly made 3 

No more -no more -O, nevermore on me 33 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note yv 

Not here! not here! not where the sparkling waters ... 3»5 

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung 455 

Not what the chemists say they be 

Now all ye flowers make room ^^^ 

Now England lessens on my sight „';*•*'' ..^ 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are 244 

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast ^4^ 

" O bairn, when I am dead 

O blithe new-comer! I have heard ♦ 

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done .... 3&o 

O days and hours, your work is this ^^ 

O don't be sorrowful, darling 

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet 7 

Of all the floures in the mede 

Of Heaven or Helix have no power to sing ^^^ 

Of Nelson and the North ; 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights ^ 

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness ^^^ 

O for a tongue to curse the slave 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green 4 

O happy lark, that warblest high ^ 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone ^^^ 

Oh, earth and heaven are far apart 

O hearts that never cease to yearn ,• • • • 3 

Oh! give me back that royal dream ^ 

Oh! listen, man 

Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette /v 

Oh, to be home again, home again, home again 4^ 

Oh, to be in England 

Oh, where will be the birds that sing 



520 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

O Keeper of the Sacred Key 229 

O, lay thy hand in mine, dear 196 

Old soldiers true, ah, them all men can trust 262 

O Love if you were here 184 

O Love, turn from the unchanging sea, and gaze 69 

O majestic Night 92 

O Maker of sweet poets! dear delight 58 

O Mary, at thy window be : 170 

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home 308 

O may I join the choir invisible 390 

O, my Luve 's like a red, red rose 175 

Once at the Angelus .... 311 

Once more the Heavenly Power 60 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept 465 

One day as I wandered, I heard a complaining 278 

One night came on a hurricane 279 

One sweetly solemn thought 416 

One year ago, — a ringing voice 317 

On Linden, when the sun was low 244 

Only a baby small 33 

Only waiting till the shadows 414 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake 87 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride 204 

O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while 201 

O, saw ye bonnie Lesley 165 

O, saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een 187 

O, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light 220 

O, sing unto my roundelay 331 

O still white face of perfect peace . . . 382 

O swallow, swallow, flying, flying south 170 

O Thou Eternal One! whose presence brigh 422 

O thou great Friend to all the sons of men 422 

Out of the night that covers me 496 

Over the river they beckon to me 413 

O waly, waly up the bank 336 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being .... 96 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year 7° 

Pain's furnace-heat within me quivers 374 

Peace, troubled heart! the way 's not long before thee . . . 384 

Poor lone Hannah 3°^ 

Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 261 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky 476 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll 86 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 521 

PAGE 

Sally Salter, she was a young teacher who taught 280 

Say not the struggle nought availeth 376 

Scar not earth's breast that I may have 497 

See the chariot at hand here of Love 158 

Serene I fold my arms and wait 463 

Set in this stormy Northern sea 207 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 325 

"She is dead!" they said to him. "Come away 343 

She is not fair to outward view 186 

She stood alone amidst the April fields 466 

She stood breast high amid the corn 466 

She wanders in the April woods ^37 

She was a phantom of delight 178 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 140 

Since there 's no help, come let us kiss and part 164 

Sing again the song you sung 118 

Sitting all day in a silver mist 124 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye 58 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves 349 

Snow-bound for earth, but summer-souled for thee 149 

So forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare 71 

Soft on the sunset sky 301 

Some ask'd me where the rubies grew 160 

Some day, some day of days, threading the street 133 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice: thou 95 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 62 

St. Agnes' eve — ah, bitter chill it was . 472 

Stand! the ground 's your own, my braves 225 

Stars trembling o'er us and sunset before us 113 

Straight to his heart the bullet crushed . 232 

Sunset and evening star 426 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 442 

Sweetest sweets that time has rifled 484 

Sweet is the voice that calls 68 

Swiftly walk over the western wave 93 

Take, O take those lips away 161 

Teach me the secret of thy loveliness 79 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 295 

Thank Heaven! the crisis - 113 

That which her slender waist confined 157 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold . . . . . 482 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 37 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies 387 



522 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

The blessed damozel leaned out 121 

The breaking waves dashed high 228 

The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 445 

The countless stars, which to our human eye 504 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 322 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary 302 

The day is done, and the darkness 509 

The day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to the hills ... 301 

The despot's heel is on thy shore 258 

The face which, duly as the sun 369 

The faithful helm commands the keel 117 

The farmer sat in his easy chair 39 

The fountains mingle with the river 173 

The keener tempests rise: and fuming dun . 99 

The knightliest of the knightly race 234 

The little gate was reached at last 172 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year . . . 300 

The morns are meeker than they were 70 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 305 

The muse; disgusted at an age and clime 218 

Then give me back that time of pleasures 1 1 1 

Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere ,. 226 

The night has a thousand eyes 134 

The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star 91 

The night was made for cooling shade 460 

The One remains, the many change and pass 425 

The orchard-lands of Long Ago 114 

The pass is barred! "Fall back!" cries the guard; ''cross not 

the French frontier 354 

The pedigree of honey 501 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill 320 

The play is done — the curtain drops 474 

The rain has ceased, and in my room . loi 

There are gains for all our losses 132 

There are three lessons t would write 379 

There is a garden in her face 160 

There is no death! The stars go down 408 

There is no time like the old time, when you and I were young . 49 

There shall be no more sea; no wild winds bringing . . . 409 

There was a rover from a western shore 207 

There was a sound of revelry by night 242 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream .... 400 

There was once a boat on a billow 417 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 5^3 

PAGE 

There were three sailors of Bristol City ^7^ 

The royal feast was done ; the king 4 5 

The sails we see on the ocean • ' * * ^^^ 

The salt wind blows upon my cheek 4 

The same year calls, and one goes hence with another . ... 3^1 

Theseare the days when birds come back- 7° 

The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plam . . 379 

The sky-is changed! — and such a change! O night .... 99 

The Sonnet is a fruit which long hath slept 493 

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 400 

The splendor falls on castle walls ^^7 

The siin of Hfe has crossed the hne 4 5 

The sunshines bright in our old Kentucky home 4 

The time for toil is past, and night has come 37^ 

The way I read a letter 's this ^9° 

The western wind is blowing fair • 

The world is too much with us; late and soon 57 

The year 's at the spring ' ' ' 

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter 43^ 

They grew in beauty side by side 

They sat and combed their beautiful hair 443 

They told me I was heir; I turned in haste 377 

They 've got a bran-new organ, Sue • • • 7 

They who create rob death of half its stings 4^4 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiHng ......••• 2^3 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign 4 

This sweet child which hath cHmbed upon my knee 304 

This world is all a fleeting show . . • 3 5 

Those we love truly never die 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew 79 

Thought is deeper than all speech 4 7 

Thou hngering star, with less'ning ray . : ^97 

Thou record of the votive throng 4 3 

Thou wast all that to me, love ^i3 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west 347 

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down 309 

Three words fall sweetly on my soul 474 

Three years she grew in sun and shower 32 

Thus all day long the full distended clouds ^°^ 

•*•" ,1. . 200 

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright ^^^ 

'T is sweet to hear g 

To him who in the love of Nature holds .... • -47 



524 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

To live in hell, and heaven to behold 163 

To what new fates, my country, far 234 

Tread lightly, she is near 316 

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago . 434 

'"T was thirty years ago, and now 456 

'T was when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in . . , . 328 

Two armies covered hill and plain 429 

"Two hands upon the breast 393 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain 410 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 502 

Under the wide and starry sky 496 

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea 119 

Upon ane stormy Sunday 275 

Venus near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth 

of ours 506 

Victor in poesy! Victor in romance 147 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 397 

Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' sights to tell . . 287 

Wake now, my Love, awake! for it is time 155 

Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow 338 

'Way down upon the Swanee Ribber ^ 47 

We are all here 53 

We are as mendicants who wait 126 

We are our father's sons: let those who lead us know .... 235 

We are the music makers iii 

Weary of myself, and sick of askings 481 

We cannot kindle when we will 503 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town 39 

We have been friends together 141 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 100 

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still ... 312 

Welcome, maids of honor 75 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths 473 

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter 487 

We parted in silence, we parted by night 186 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 291 

We sail toward evening's lonely star 120 

We sit here in the Promised Land 350 

We watched her breathing through the night 303 

We were crowded in the cabin 459 

'What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade . . 505 

What constitutes a state 205 

What do we plant when we plant the tree 485 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 525 

PAGE 

What is a sonnet? 'T is the pearly shell 492 

W^at is the little one thinking about 34 

What is there wanting in the spring ^^ 

What shall I do lest life in silence pass 473 

What though I sing noother song . ^^° 

Wheel me into the sunshine ^° 

When a 'ither bairnies are hushed to their hame 330 

When all the world is young, lad 439 

When do I see thee most, beloved one 3^0 

When Freedom from her home was driven 201 

When Freedom, from her mountain height 219 

^\^len I am dead, my dearest 3^2 

When I bethink me on that speech whyleare 420 

When I consider how my Hght is spent 467 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 150 

When I think on the happy days ^73 

When Ulacs last in the dooryard bloom'd 35 

When Love, our great immortal ^29 

When love with unconfined wings ^5 

When the grass shall cover me 3ii 

When the himiid shadows hover 5° 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's come hame . . 298 

When thou, in all thy lovehness 3i5 

Where is the German's Fatherland 224 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go 442 

Where swell the songs thou shouldst have sung i44 

"Which shall it be? AVhich shall it be " 4° 

While sauntering through the crowded street 129 

Whilst in this cold and blustering chme ^45 

Who can paint Hke Nature • ^ 

Who drives the horses of the sun 4 5 

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate 345 

Why bowest thou, O soul of mine 5^4 

Why fear to-morrow, timid heart 49 

Why flyest thou away with fear ^ 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ^^° 

With deep affection • 449 

With heavy head bent on her yielding hand 333 

Within the sober realm of leafless trees 4^8 

Within what weeks the melilot 44i 

Woodman, spare that tree 4 2 

Worn with the battle by Stamford town 215 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 3^9 



526 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 331 

Ye mariners of England 241 

Yes! in the sea of life enisled 501 

Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory 222 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven 94 

Yon silvery billows breaking on the beach 493 

You, Dinah! Come and set me where de ribber-roads does meet 284 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn 269 



MAR 11 1907 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




013 979 922 7 



